Chapter 10 No.10

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams;

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

E. A. Poe.

* * *

HYMN TO DIANA

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair.

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heav'n to clear, when day did close:

Bless us then with wished sight,

Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart

And thy crystal shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:

Thou that mak'st a day of night,

Goddess excellently bright.

B. Jonson.

* * *

COUNTY GUY

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,

Sits hush'd his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour

But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade,

Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy, by lattice high,

Sings high-born Cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky;

And high and low the influence know-

But where is County Guy?

Sir W. Scott.

* * *

GATHERING SONG OF

???DONALD DHU

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clan Conuil.

Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons!

Come in your war-array,

Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and

From mountain so rocky,

The war-pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlochy.

Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,

Come every steel blade, and

Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter;

Leave the corpse uninterr'd,

The bride at the altar;

Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges:

Come with your fighting gear,

Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when

Forests are rended;

Come as the waves come, when

Navies are stranded:

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page and groom,

Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;

See how they gather!

Wide waves the eagle plume

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu

Knell for the onset!

Sir W. Scott.

* * *

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen;

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

AND THE IDOLS ARE BROKE IN THE TEMPLE OF BAAL.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Lord Byron.

* * *

THE CAVALIER

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,

My true love has mounted his steed, and away

Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,-

Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,

He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair,

From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,-

Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;

Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;

His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,-

God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all

The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;

But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,

That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.

There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;

There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!

Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown

With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!

Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,

Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,

In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.

Sir W. Scott.

* * *

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO

????CHAPMAN'S HOMER

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific-and all his men

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

J. Keats.

* * *

SONG

FOR MUSIC

A lake and a fairy boat

To sail in the moonlight clear,-

And merrily we would float

From the dragons that watch us here!

Thy gown should be snow-white silk,

And strings of orient pearls,

Like gossamers dipped in milk,

Should twine with thy raven curls

Red rubies should deck thy hands,

And diamonds should be thy dower-

But Fairies have broke their wands,

And wishing has lost its power!

T. Hood.

* * *

ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,

By all their country's wishes bless'd!

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,

Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,

She there shall dress a sweeter sod

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;

By forms unseen their dirge is sung;

There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay;

And Freedom shall a while repair

To dwell a weeping hermit there!

W. Collins.

* * *

TO DAFFODILS

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon:

As yet the early-rising Sun

Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a Spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you, or any thing.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the Summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning's dew

Ne'er to be found again.

R. Herrick.

* * *

THE SOLITARY REAPER

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?-

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;-

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

W. Wordsworth.

* * *

TO BLOSSOMS

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past;

But you may stay yet here a while,

To blush and gently smile;

And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight;

And so to bid good-night?

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth

Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave:

And after they have shown their pride,

Like you, a while: they glide

Into the grave.

R. Herrick.

* * *

PROUD MAISIE

Proud Maisie is in the wood,

Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

Singing so rarely.

'Tell me, thou bonny bird,

When shall I marry me?'-

'When six braw gentlemen

Kirkward shall carry ye.'

'Who makes the bridal bed,

Birdie, say truly?'-

'The grey-headed sexton

That delves the grave duly.

'The glow-worm o'er grave and stone

Shall light thee steady.

The owl from the steeple sing,

"Welcome, proud lady." '

Sir W. Scott.

* * *

?SLEEP

Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,

The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,

Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;

With shield of proof shield me from out the press

Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:

O make in me those civil wars to cease;

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,

A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,

A rosy garland and a weary head:

And if these things, as being thine in right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.

Sir Philip Sidney.

* * *

HYMN FOR THE DEAD

That day of wrath, that dreadful day,

When heaven and earth shall pass away!

What power shall be the sinner's stay?

How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,

The flaming heavens together roll;

When louder yet, and yet more dread,

Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!

Oh! on that day, that wrathful day,

When man to judgment wakes from clay,

Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay,

Though heaven and earth shall pass away!

Sir W. Scott.

* * *

THE POPLAR FIELD

The poplars are fell'd; farewell to the shade,

And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade!

The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,

Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view

Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;

And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!

The blackbird has fled to another retreat,

Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,

And the scene where his melody charm'd me before

Resounds with his sweet flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,

Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,

To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;

Short-lived as we are, our pleasures, I see

Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

W. Cowper.

* * *

WINTER

When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note!

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl

Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note!

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

W. Shakespeare.

* * *

ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child, and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her high-born kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

TO SHUT HER UP IN A SEPULCHRE

??IN THIS KINGDOM BY THE SEA.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me;

Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I see the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

E. A. Poe.

* * *

TO MARY

If I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had past

The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook

That I must look in vain!

But when I speak-thou dost not say,

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been!

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave-

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!