Lewis Carroll

“ Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping,
That lures the bird home to her nest?
Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,
To cuddle and croon it to rest?
What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,
Till it cooes with the voice of the dove? ”

“ And thrust for ever from his mind
The happiness he could not find.
As when the wretch, in lonely room,
To selfish death is madly hurled,
The glamour of that fatal fume
Shuts out the wholesome living world ”

“ To put the cold world out of sight,
And deck life's drear and barren scene
With hues of rainbow-light.
For what to man the gift of breath,
If sorrow be his lot below;
If all the day that ends in death
Be dark with clouds of woe? ”

“ Last night we owned, with looks forlorn,
"Too well the scholar knows
There is no rose without a thorn"—
But peace is made! We sing, this morn,
"No thorn without a rose!"
Our Latin lesson is complete:
We've learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet! ”

“ Whose blue eyes are deep fountains of light,
Cheering the poet that broodeth apart,
Filling with gladness his desolate heart,
Like the moon when she shines thro' a cloudless night
On a world of silence and shade. ”

“ I marked but scorn and loathing, till mine eyes
Fell upon one that stirred not in his place,
Tranced in a dumb surprise.
Surely within his mind
Strange thoughts are born, until he doubts the lore
Of those old men, blind leaders of the blind,
Whose kingdom is no more.
Surely he sees afar
A day of death the stormy future brings ”

“ My soul within me seemed to melt
In sweet delirious pain.
"Sweet is the stolen draught," she said:
"Hath sweetness stint or measure?
Pleasant the secret hoard of bread:
What bars us from our pleasure?" ”

“ A truth in what they say,
That angel-forms we cannot see
Go with us on our way;
Then surely she is with me here,
I dimly feel her spirit near—
The morning-mists grow thin and clear,
And Death brings in the Day. ”

“ Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,
Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?
That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearning
For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? ”

“ Our lives are warm and near:
No distance parts two faithful hearts—
Two hearts that love so dear:
And I will trust my sailor-lad,
For ever and a day,
To think of me—to think of me—
When he is far away! ”

“ And broken mutterings, all declare
The fearful dream that haunts her now.
The storm-wind, rushing through the sky,
Wails from the depths of cloudy space;
Shrill, piercing as the seaman's cry
When death and he are face to face. ”

“ Pierced slowly through the darkness, orbed, and grew,
Until all passed away—the ancient room—
The sunlight dying through the trellised vine—
The one tall window—all had passed away,
And she was standing on the mighty hills. ”

“ A bright seraph undefiled,
Were to stoop from the trackless air,
Fain would she linger in glad amaze—
Lovingly linger to ponder and gaze,
With a sister’s love and a sister’s care,
On the happy, innocent child. ”

“ My son, there comes to each an hour
When sinks the spirit's pride—
When weary hands forget their power
The strokes of death to guide:
In such a moment, warriors say,
A word the panic-rout may stay,
A sudden charge redeem the day
And turn the living tide. ”

“ But I was not the same.
They call me mad: I smile, I weep,
Uncaring how or why:
Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep,
What better than to die?
So that the grave be dark and deep.
To die! To die? ”

“ It shall not dim Life's joy for him:
My tears he shall not see:
While he is by, I'll come not nigh
My weeping Willow-Tree.
"But when I die, oh let me lie
Beneath thy loving shade,
That he may loiter careless by,
Where I am lowly laid. ”

“ Who let the thought of bliss denied
Make havoc of our life and powers,
And pine, in solitary pride,
For peace that never shall be ours,
Because we will not work and wait
In trustful patience for our fate. ”

“ FACES IN THE FIRE.
The night creeps onward, sad and slow
In these red embers' dying glow
The forms of Fancy come and go.
An island-farm—broad seas of corn
Stirred by the wandering breath of morn—
The happy spot where I was born. ”

“ Ridicule has made him wary:
In the woods, and down the glen,
No one meets a Fairy!
"Cream!" the greedy Goblin cries—
Empties the deserted dairy—
Steals the spoons, and off he flies.
Still we seek our Fairy! ”

“ “O bitter is it to abide
In weariness alway:
At dawn to sigh for eventide,
At eventide for day.
Thy noon hath fled: thy sun hath shone.
The brightness of thy day is gone:
What need to lag and linger on
Till life be cold and gray? ”

“ The only poems, here printed for the first time, are put together under the title of “Puck Lost and Found,” having been inscribed in two books—Fairies, a poem by Allingham, illustrated by Miss E. Gertrude Thomson, and Merry Elves, a story-book, by whom written I do not know, illustrated by C. O. Murray—which were presented to a little girl and boy, as a sort of memento of a visit paid by them to the author one day, on which occasion he taught them the pastime—dear to the hearts of children—of folding paper-“pistols,” which can be made to imitate, fairly well, the noise of a real one. ”

“ The fevered brain might slumber cool,
The eyes forget to weep:
Within that goblet's mystic rim
Are draughts of healing, stored for him
Whose heart is sick, whose sight is dim,
Who prayeth but to sleep! ”

“ The pictures, with their ruddy light,
Are changed to dust and ashes white,
And I am left alone with night. ”

“ All in the waning light she stood,
The star of perfect womanhood. ”

“ All too soon will Childhood gay
Realise Life’s sober sadness.
Let’s be merry while we may,
Innocent and happy Fay!
Elves were made for gladness! ”

“ The two poems, “Far Away” and “A Song of Love”, are reprinted from Sylvie and Bruno and Sylvie and Bruno Concluded, books whose high price (made necessary by the great cost of production) has, I fear, put them out of the reach of most of my readers. ”

“ Not as in rest she bowed,
But large hot tears were coursing down her cheek,
And her low-panted sobs broke awefully
Upon the sleeping echoes of the night. ”

“ THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK. An Agony in Eight Fits. With Nine Illustrations, and two large gilt designs on cover, by Henry Holiday. (First published in 1876.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 4s. 6d. net. Twentieth Thousand.
RHYME? AND REASON? With Sixty-five Illustrations by Arthur B. Frost, and Nine by Henry Holiday. (First published in 1883, being a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portion of “Phantasmagoria and other Poems,” published in 1869, and of “The Hunting of the Snark,” published in 1876.) Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, price 6s. net. Sixth Thousand. ”