War

(Battleship, launched March 24, 1898.)

I


Here's to her who bears the name
Of our State;
May the glory of her fame
Be as great!
In the battle's dread eclipse,
When she opens iron lips,
When our ships confront the ships
Of the foe,
May each word of steel she utters carry woe!
Here's to her!


II


Here's to her, who, like a knight
Mailed of old,
From far sea to sea the Right
Shall uphold.
May she always deal defeat,--
When contending navies meet,
And the battle's screaming sleet
Blinds and stuns,--
With the red, terrific thunder of her guns.
Here's to her!


III


Here's to her who bears the name
Of our State;
May the glory of her fame
Be as great!

“The white Julienne remains the flower of Marie Antoinette.”
- ALPHONSE KARR


Again above thy fragile flowers
I bend, to bring their perfume nigh;
For only in the evening hours
Thy odors pass thy blossoms by;
But when the ministering day
Deserts thee with the warmth and light
That lulled thee, waking thou wilt pay
For these, in sweetness, to the night.

O flower of Marie Antoinette!
Ungrateful to the lavish day,
Refusing it thy fragrance, yet
Relenting in such generous way,
Perchance, like thee, while life was bright
Her soul no holy savour shed,
Yet scattered incense when grief’s night
Wept dews of blood upon her head!

I bend, to bring thy perfume near,
Again, I cannot leave the spot;
Damp walls and prison gloo...

Tune - "Caledonian Hunt's Delight."


I.

    Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
        How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
    How can ye chant, ye little birds,
        And I sae weary, fu' o' care!
    Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
        That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
    Thou minds me o' departed joys,
        Departed, never to return!

II.

    Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
        To see the rose and woodbine twine;
    And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
        And fondly sae did I o' mine.
    Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
        Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
    And my fause luver stole my rose,
        But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

[1]

The horses have not always been
The humble slaves of men.
When, in the far-off past,
The fare of gentlemen was mast,
And even hats were never felt,
Horse, ass, and mule in forests dwelt.
Nor saw one then, as in these ages,
So many saddles, housings, pillions;
Such splendid equipages,
With golden-lace postilions;
Such harnesses for cattle,
To be consumed in battle;
As one saw not so many feasts,
And people married by the priests.
The horse fell out, within that space,
With the antler'd stag, so fleetly made:
He could not catch him in a race,
And so he came to man for aid.
Man first his suppliant bitted;
Then, on his back well seated,
Gave chase with spear, and rested not
Till to the ground the foe he brought.

A golden-winged Angel stood
Before the Eternal Judgement-seat:
His looks were wild, and Devils' blood
Stained his dainty hands and feet.
The Father and the Son
Knew that strife was now begun.
They knew that Satan had broken his chain,
And with millions of daemons in his train,
Was ranging over the world again.
Before the Angel had told his tale,
A sweet and a creeping sound
Like the rushing of wings was heard around;
And suddenly the lamps grew pale -
The lamps, before the Archangels seven,
That burn continually in Heaven.

Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
Of thunder and the ’wildering wings of rain
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,
Year after year, the days of tender heat,
And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet,
And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.
A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell
The secret that its heart of water knows,
The story of a loved and lost repose;
Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:
A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,
Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.

        utrum horum
        dirius borun? Incerti Auctoris.


What! still those two infernal questions,
    That with our meals our slumbers mix--
That spoil our tempers and digestions--
    Eternal Corn and Catholics!

Gods! were there ever two such bores?
    Nothing else talkt of night or morn--
Nothing in doors or out of doors,
    But endless Catholics and Corn!

Never was such a brace of pests--
    While Ministers, still worse than either,
Skilled but in feathering their nests,
    Plague us with both and settle neither.

So addled in my cranium meet
    Popery and Corn that oft I doubt,
Whether, this year, 'twas bonded Wheat,
    Or bonded Papists, they let out.

Here, la...

1

Such star-like lustre lights her Eyes,
They must have darted from a Sphere,
Our duller System to surprise,
Outshining all the Planets here;
And, having wander'd from their wonted place,
Fix in the wond'rous Heaven of her Face.


2

The modest Rose, whose blushes speak
The ardent kisses of the Sun,
Off'ring a tribute to her Cheek,
Droops, to perceive its Tint outdone;
Then withering with envy and despair,
Dies on her Lips, and leaves its Fragrance there.


3

Ringlets, that to her Breast descend,
Increase the beauties they invade;
Thus branches in luxuriance bend,
To grace the lovely Hills they shade;

Throw open wide your golden gates,
O poet-landed month of June,
And waft me, on your spicy breath,
The melody of birds in tune.

O fairest palace of the three,
Wherein Queen Summer holdeth sway,
I gaze upon your leafy courts
From out the vestibule of May.

I fain would tread your garden walks,
Or in your shady bowers recline;
Then open wide your golden gates,
And make them mine, and make them mine.

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover --
Dips -- evades -- teases -- deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.

Soft and holy Vesper Hour -
    Precursor of the night -
How I love thy soothing power,
    The hush, the fading light;
Raising those vain thoughts of ours
    To higher, holier things -
Mingling gleams from Eden's bowers
    With earth's imaginings!

How thrilling in some grand old fane
    To hear the Vesper prayer
Rise, with the organ's solemn strain,
    On incense-laden air;
While the last dying smiles of day
    Athwart the stained glass pour -
Flooding with red and golden ray
    The shrine and chancel floor.

Who, at such moment, has not felt
    Those yearnings, vague, yet sweet,
For Heaven's joys at last to melt,
    Into fruition meet;
And wished, as with rapt soul he viewed
    That glorious Home above,
That ...

Love's a thing, as I do hear,
Ever full of pensive fear;
Rather than to which I'll fall,
Trust me, I'll not like at all.
If to love I should intend,
Let my hair then stand an end:
And that terror likewise prove
Fatal to me in my love.
But if horror cannot slake
Flames which would an entrance make
Then the next thing I desire
Is, to love and live i' th' fire.

Can you see me, Sasha?
I can see you....
A tentacle of the vast dawn is resting on your face
that floats as though detached
in a sultry and greenish vapor.
I cannot reach my hands to you...
would not if I could,
though I know how warmly yours would close about them.
Why?
I do not know...
I have a sense of shame.
Your eyes hurt me... mysterious openings in the gray stone of your face
through which your spirit streams out taut as a flag
bearing strange symbols to the new dawn.

If I stay... projected, trembling against these bars filtering emaciated light...
will your eyes... that bore their lonely way through mine...
stop as at a friendly gate...
grow warm... and luminous?
... but I cannot stay... for the smell...
I know... how the days pass...

While he was here in breath and bone,
To speak to and to see,
Would I had known more clearly known -
What that man did for me

When the wind scraped a minor lay,
And the spent west from white
To gray turned tiredly, and from gray
To broadest bands of night!

But I saw not, and he saw not
What shining life-tides flowed
To me-ward from his casual jot
Of service on that road.

He would have said: "'Twas nothing new;
We all do what we can;
'Twas only what one man would do
For any other man."

Now that I gauge his goodliness
He's slipped from human eyes;
And when he passed there's none can guess,
Or point out where he lies.

Tuesday evening,

I much regret, dear Reverend Sir,
    I could not come to * * * to meet you;
But this curst gout won’t let me stir--
    Even now I but by proxy greet you;
As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,
Owes all to an amanuensis.
Most other scourges of disease
Reduce men to extremities--
But gout won’t leave one even these.

From all my sister writes, I see
That you and I will quite agree.
I'm a plain man who speak the truth,
    And trust you'll think me not uncivil,
When I declare that from my youth
    I've wisht your country at the devil:
Nor can I doubt indeed from all
    I've heard of your high patriot fame--
From every word your lips let fall--
    That you most truly wish the same.
It p...

The Texts of these two variations on the same theme are taken from T. Ravenscroft's Melismata, 1611, and Scott's Minstrelsy, 1803, respectively. There are several other versions of the Scots ballad, while Motherwell prints The Three Ravens, changing only the burden.

Chappell (Popular Music of the Olden Time) says of the English version that he has been 'favored with a variety of copies of it, written down from memory; and all differing in some respects, both as to words and tune, but with sufficient resemblance to prove a similar origin.' Consciously or not, the ballad, as set by him to its traditional tune, is to be sung without the threefold repetition shown by Ravenscroft, thus compressing two verses of the ballad into each repetition of the tune, and halving the length of the song.

Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Hail bounteous May that dost inspire
Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcom thee, and wish thee long.

    Their spirits beat upon mine
    Like the wings of a thousand butterflies.
    I closed my eyes and felt their spirits vibrating.
    I closed my eyes, yet I knew when their lashes
    Fringed their cheeks from downcast eyes,
    And when they turned their heads;
    And when their garments clung to them,
    Or fell from them, in exquisite draperies.
    Their spirits watched my ecstasy
    With wide looks of starry unconcern.
    Their spirits looked upon my torture;
    They drank it as it were the water of life;
    With reddened cheeks, brightened eyes,
    The rising flame of my soul made their spirits gilt,
    Like the wings of a butterfly drifting suddenly into sunlight.
    And they cried to me for life, life, life.
    But in taking life for mys...