“ But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o’er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar! ”

“ The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound, 205
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay ”

“ Never nightingale so singeth—
Oh! she leans on thorny tree,
And her poet-soul she flingeth
Over pain to victory!
Yet she never sings such music,—or she sings it not to me!
Never blackbirds, never thrushes,
Nor small finches sing as sweet,
When the sun strikes through the bushes
To their crimson clinging feet,
And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete.
In a child-abstraction lifted,
Straightway from the bower I passed;
Foot and soul being dimly drifted
Through the greenwood, till, at last,
In the hill-top’s open sunshine, I all consciously was cast. ”

“ O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. 47
O hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. Sir Walter Scott. ”

“ O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 210
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ”

“ For he has to remember that his task is, not to provide simple examples of the whole range of English poetry, but to set up a wicket-gate giving attractive admission to that wide domain, with its woodland glades, its pasture and arable, its walled and scented gardens here and there, and so to its sunlit, and sometimes misty, mountain-tops—all to be more fully explored later by those who are tempted on by the first glimpse. ”

“ Ay, here—it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; 299
All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told.
Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white
To that little old church? and will Oliver meet me anon?
Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over—passed on?
Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light
I hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry
Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!” ”

“ Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Percy Bysshe Shelley.
The Moon-Goddess
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 ”

“ A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near. 34
The swallow oft beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to Heaven. Samuel Rogers.
Wishing
Ring-ting! ”

“ So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word) ,
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 281
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.” ”

“ The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! 241
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Rous’d up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lips—“The foe! they come! ”

“ We begin with some jingles and old rhymes; for rhymes and jingles must not be despised. They have rhyme, rhythm, melody, and joy; and it is well for beginners to know that these are all elements of poetry, so that they will turn to it with pleasant expectation.
Merry are the Bells
Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring,
Merry was myself, and merry could I sing;
With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free,
And a merry sing-song, happy let us be! ”

“ In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;
What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. 26
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving, all come back together.
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he—
“I love my love, and my love loves me!” S. T. Coleridge. ”

“ Shakespeare.
A Prescription for a Spring Morning
At early dawn through London you must go
Until you come where long black hedgerows grow,
With pink buds pearl’d, with here and there a tree, 29
And gates and stiles; and watch good country folk;
And scent the spicy smoke
Of wither’d weeds that burn where gardens be;
And in a ditch perhaps a primrose see.
The rooks shall stalk the plough, larks mount the skies,
Blackbirds and speckled thrushes sing aloud,
Hid in the warm white cloud
Mantling the thorn, and far away shall rise
The milky low of cows and farm-yard cries. ”

“ The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” ”

“ Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That’s the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That’s the way for Billy and me. James Hogg.
A Girl’s Song
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream
To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song. ”

“ Sing me a song, O please! Amy Lowell.
13 COUNTRY BOYS’ SONGS
The Cuckoo
The cuckoo’s a bonny bird,
She sings as she flies;
She brings us good tidings,
And tells us no lies.
She sucks little birds’ eggs,
To make her voice clear,
And never cries Cuckoo
Till the spring of the year.
The Bird-Scarer’s Song
We’ve ploughed our land, we’ve sown our seed,
We’ve made all neat and gay;
Then take a bit and leave a bit,
Away, birds, away!
Cradle Song
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Our cottage vale is deep;
The little lamb is on the green,
With woolly fleece so soft and clean,
Sleep, baby, sleep! ”

“ With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. 208
Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store? ”

“ The Smuggler
O my true love’s a smuggler and sails upon the sea,
And I would I were a seaman to go along with he;
To go along with he for the satins and the wine,
And run the tubs at Slapton when the stars do shine.
O Hollands is a good drink when the nights are cold,
And Brandy is a good drink for them as grows old.
There is lights in the cliff-top when the boats are home-bound,
And we run the tubs at Slapton when the word goes round.
The King he is a proud man in his grand red coat,
But I do love a smuggler in a little fishing-boat ”

“ But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing. 252
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory. Charles Wolfe.
How Sleep the Brave
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes blest! ”

“ There exists, moreover, any quantity of verse for children, which is merely verse and nothing more. It lacks the vital spark of heavenly flame, and is useless to a selector of Poetry. And then there is the whole corpus of verse—most of it of the present day—which is written about children, and this has even more carefully to be avoided. When the time comes that we send our parents to school, it will prove very useful to the compilers of their primers. ”

“ Ding, dong, bell. Shakespeare.
2. Its Lawless Joys
The Old Buccaneer
Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high,
But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;
And such a port for mariners I ne’er shall see again
As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.
There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,
All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free
To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. ”

“ And, “I go,” said the Vandal. And went. When at last to the gates he was come,
Loud he knock’d with his fierce iron fist. And full drowsily answer’d him Rome.
“Who is it that knocketh so loud? Get thee hence. Let me be. For ’tis late.”
“Thou art wanted,” cried Genseric. “Open! His name that hath sent me is Fate,
And mine, who knock late, Retribution.”
Rome gave him her glorious things;
The keys she had conquer’d from kingdoms: the crowns she had wrested from kings:
And Genseric bore them away into Carthage, avenged thus on Rome,
And paused, and said, laughing, “Where next?” ”

“ Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? ”

“ The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent
The earth is cover’d thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent,
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent! Lord Byron. ”

“ And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth.
SEASONS AND WEATHER
The Months
January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes loud and shrill,
Stirs the dancing daffodil. 18
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children’s hands with posies. ”

“ Indeed, I believe that those who can ignore the plays of Shakespeare and his fellow-Elizabethans till they are sixteen will be no losers in the long run. The bulk, too, of seventeenth and eighteenth century poetry, bending under its burden of classical form and crowded classical allusion, requires a completed education and a wide range of reading for its proper appreciation. ”

“ The first dew on the first flower!
But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower.
All my losses did I tell you,
Ye, perchance, would look away;—
Ye would answer me, “Farewell! you
Make sad company to-day;
And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.”
For God placed me like a dial
In the open ground, with power;
And my heart had for its trial,
All the sun and all the shower!
And I suffered many losses; and my first was of the bower. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
[52] lusus: a sport, a freak.
292 Echo and the Ferry
Ay, Oliver! ”