“ O forty miles off Aberdour, ’Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY
Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a fairy’s child ”

“ So when a shepherd of the Hebrid isles Placed far amid the melancholy main.
Childhood is the age when a love of poetry may be born and strengthened—a taste which grows rarer and more rare in our age, when examinations spring up and choke the good seed. By way of lending no aid to what is called Education, very few notes have been added. The child does not want everything to be explained; in the unexplained is great pleasure. Nothing, perhaps, crushes the love of poetry more surely and swiftly than the use of poems as school-books. ”

“ Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower’d, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves. ”

“ If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighbouring rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitter hill and plain, And the air is calm in vain; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy: Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety? Yet, whate’er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature ”

“ But Christabel the lamp will trim. She trimm’d the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sank down upon the floor below.
‘O weary lady, Geraldine, I pray you, drink this cordial wine! It is a wine of virtuous powers; My mother made it of wild flowers.’
‘And will your mother pity me, Who am a maiden most forlorn?’ Christabel answered—‘Woe is me! She died the hour that I was born. I have heard the grey-hair’d friar tell, How on her death-bed she did say, That she should hear the castle-bell Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. ”

“ Now all the tree-tops lay asleep Like green waves on the sea, As still as in the silent deep The ocean woods may be. [Pg 160]
How calm it was!—the silence there By such a chain was bound That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seemed, from the remotest seat Of the white mountain waste To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced,— A spirit interfused around, A thrilling silent life: To momentary peace it bound Our mortal nature’s strife. ”

“ Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O’er hilly path, and open strath, We’ll wander Scotland thorough; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow.
‘Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-Mill meadow; The swan on still Saint Mary’s Lake Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go, To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There’s such a place as Yarrow.
‘Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it: We have a vision of our own ”

“ But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. And O! though Brignall banks be fair And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May!
‘Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I’ll die! The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I’m with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now.’
CHORUS Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green. ”

“ But out spake gentle Henry, ‘No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.’ Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta’en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta’en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. ”

“ O, lady bright, can it be right, This window open to the night? The wanton airs from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice drop; The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully, so fearfully, Above the closed and fringèd lid ‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid, That, o’er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! [Pg 208] Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees. ”

“ 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! ”

“ In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O’er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight—
Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.
All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d. ”

“ But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.—
‘O haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries, ‘Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.’—
The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,— When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather’d o’er her. ”

“ The three most famous poems of Coleridge may be above a child’s full comprehension, but they lead him into a world not realised, ‘an unsubstantial fairy place,’ bright in a morning mist, like our memories of childhood.
It is probably later, in most lives, that the mind wakens to delight in the less obvious magic of style, and the less ringing, the more intimate melody of poets like Keats and Lord Tennyson. ”

“ Then Christabel stretched forth her hand And comforted fair Geraldine: O well bright dame may you command The service of Sir Leoline; And gladly our stout chivalry Will he send forth and friends withal To guide and guard you safe and free Home to your noble father’s hall. She rose: and forth with steps they passed That strove to be, and were not, fast. Her gracious stars the lady blest, And thus spake on sweet Christabel; All our household are at rest, The hall as silent as the cell, Sir Leoline is weak in health And may not well awakened be, But we will move as if in stealth ”

“ For, beyond the child and his actual experience of the world as the ballads and poems of battle are, he can forecast the years, and anticipate the passions. What he cannot anticipate is his own age, himself, his pleasures and griefs, as the grown man sees them in memory, and with a sympathy for the thing that he has been, and can never be again. It is his excursions into the untravelled world which the child enjoys, and this is what makes Shakespeare so dear to him—Shakespeare who has written so little on childhood. ”

“ My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth.
Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more! My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. [Pg 277]
How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-wingèd arrows of light. ”

“ When bells were rung and mass was sung, And every body went hame, Then every lady had her son, But Lady Helen had nane.
She rolled her mantle her about, And sore, sore did she weep; She ran away to the Jew’s castle When all were fast asleep.
She cries, ‘Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh, I pray you speak to me; If you speak to any body in this world, I pray you speak to me.’
‘Lady Helen, if ye want your son, I’ll tell ye where to seek; Lady Helen, if ye want your son, He’s in the well sae deep.’
She ran away to the deep draw-well, And she fell down on her knee ”

“ And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss, If Heaven had but assigned us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we’ve left behind us!
As travellers oft look back, at eve, When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing,— So, when the close of pleasure’s day To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that’s left behind us. ”

“ And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard’s narrow space And this vale so blithe a place, Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood; And, among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide, All have laid their mirth aside. Where is he that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree ”

“ Rather, ambition’s gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
‘Then, Leicester, why,—again I plead, The injured surely may repine,— Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair Princess might be thine?
‘Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave to mourn the livelong day?
‘The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a Countess can have woe.
‘How far less blest am I than them! Daily to pine and waste with care! ”

“ That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated Nature; And rising from those lofty groves, Behold a ruin hoary! The shattered front of Newark’s Towers, Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in, For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of studious ease and generous cares, And every chaste affection! ”

“ Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd’s trade And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th’ abhorrèd shears And slits the thin-spun life. ”

“ Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. ”

“ The Abbot was weary as abbot could be, And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree: When suddenly rose a dismal tone,— Was it a song, or was it a moan?— ‘O ho! O ho! Above,—below,— Lightly and brightly they glide and go! The hungry and keen on the top are leaping, The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping; Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy, Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy! In a monstrous fright, by the murky light, He looked to the left and he looked to the right, And what was the vision close before him, That flung such a sudden stupor o’er him? ”