The Poetical Reader For School and Home

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I 600087082V
THE
POETICAL READER,
SCHOOL AND HOME USE.
EDITED BY
JOHN CHARLES CURTIS, B.A.,

Author of a" School and College History of England" " Chronological and
Genealogical Tables, illustrative of English History" Sfc.
LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.,
Stationers' Hall Court.
Price One Shilling.

Printed by J. & W. Rider, 14, Bartholomew Close, London.
PREFACE.
Though the paramount value of poetry in relation

to the culture of the conceptive faculty, and the
improvement of the taste, is universally admitted,
yet there are many schools, both public and private,
in which the reading of poetry forms no part of the
school curriculum ; and it is believed that this omission
is due, in some degree, to the want of a cheap, well-
compiled, and interesting Poetical Reader. This
want the Editor has endeavoured to supply—with
what success those teachers who give the book a trial
will be best competent to judge.'
It has not been deemed advisable to attempt any

systematical classification of the poems, and they
therefore follow one another without reference to
time, form, or subject-matter.
The Editor begs to present his warmest thanks

to Alfred Tennyson, Esq., Matthew Arnold, Esq.
Thomas Carlyle, Esq., Charles Swain, Esq., Professor
Kingsley, Dean Trench, Rev. F. W. Mant, Mrs.
Howitt, and Miss Eliza Cook, for their kind per
iv Preface.
mission to allow the use of copyright poems which
have greatly enhanced the value of the collection.
He has, also, to thank Mr. Bennett for permission
to publish Mrs. Howitt's "Sunshine," the copyright
of which is his property; Messrs. W. Blackwood
and Sons for permission to publish Professor Aytoun's
''Old Scottish Cavalier," and Mrs. Hemans' "Better
Land," " Homes of England," and " Casa Bianca ;"
Messrs. Longman and Co. for like consent to publish
Moore's " Canadian Boat Song," " Evening Bells,"
and "Minstrel Boy;" and Messrs. Moxon and Co.
for permission to make use of Lamb's " Familiar
Faces," Hood's "Past and Present," and "Song of
the Shirt," Leigh Hunt's "Abou Ben Adhem and
the Angel," an extract from Keats' "Endymion,"
and Shelley's "Skylark."
July, 1863.
CONTENTS.
Page
The Universal Prayer Pope i
The Old Arm-Chair E. Cook . 3
Hunting Song . Scott 4
We are Seven . Wordsworth 5
A Psalm of Life Longfellow 7
Cranmer's Prediction of the
Future Greatness of the Prin
cess Elizabeth .... Shakspeare 8
The Old Familiar Faces Lamb 10
To the Rainbow .... Campbell . ii
Ingratitude Shakspeare 13
The Spanish Armada Macaulay 13
A Canadian Boat Song . Moore 17
Ring out the Old, Ring in the
New . . . . . Tennyson 18
Edwin and Angelina Goldsmith 19
Polonius's Advice to Laertes Shakspeare 24
The Sunshine Mrs. Howitt • 25
The Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson 26
Past and Present .... Hood 27
Honest Poverty .... Burns 28
Hohenlinden Campbell . 29
Othello's Oration to the Senate Shakspeare . 30
VI Contents.
Page
The Better Land .... Mrs, Hemans . 32
Excelsior Longfellow 33
Wife's Duty Shakspeare 34
The Old Scottish Cavalier • Aytoun 35
Be kind to each other . Swain . 37
Young Lochinvar .... Scott 38
Lament of the Irish Emigrant . Mrs. Blackwood 40
The Seven Ages .... Shakspeare 42
Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel Leigh Hunt 43
The Blind Boy's been at Play E. Cook . 43
Waterloo Byron 44
Morning Song Cunningham . 47
Mercy Shakspeare 48
Lament for James, Earl of Glen-
cairn Burns . , 48
Happiness depends on Man's Igno
rance of Future Events, and on
his Hope of a Future State Pope 51
The Song of the Shirt . Hood 52
Try Again . . . E. Cook . 55
Bonny Dundee . . ... Scott 57
Ho ! Breakers on the Weather
Bow Swain 59
The Village Blacksmith Longfellow 60
Ivry Macaulay 61
Kings Shakspeare 65
Summer Song of the Strawberry Girl . 66
Lord Ullin's Daughter. Campbell . 67
The Three Fishers. Kingsley . 69
Rule, Britannia .... Thomson . 70
Commonwealth of Bees . Shakspeare 71
Peace Herbert . 7i
Contents. vn
Page
The Brook Tennyson 73
Casa Bianca . ... Mrs. Heinans 74
The Last Minstrel . . . . Scott 76
Doomsday . Shakspeare 73
There's a Good Time coming. Mackay . 79
Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Southey . 80
Bruce to his Troops before the
Battle of Bannockburn Burns 83
Lucy Gray, or Solitude Wordsworth 84
The Village Schoolmaster . Goldsmith 86
Elegy written in a Country
Churchyard Gray 87
King Arthur . Mant 91
The Homes of England. Mrs. Heinans 92
The Village Preacher . . . Goldsmith 93
Verses supposed to be written by
Alexander Selkirk Cowper 95
Some murmur when their Sky is
clear Trench . 97
Ye Mariners of England Campbell . 97
Ode to Duty . . . Wordsworth 99
The Exile of Erin .... Campbell . IOO
Flowers in Childhood and Age . Mrs. Sigourney > 102
Vision of Belshazzar Byron 103
The Fairies of the Caldon-Low . Mrs. Howitt . 104
The Destruction of Sennacherib Byron 107
The Burial of Sir John Moore . Wolfe 108
From "L' Allegro". Milton 109
The Dissolution of Friendship . Coleridge . 111
The Lord of Burleigh . Tennyson 112
Song of the Danish Sea-king Motherwell 114
Death of Warwick Shakspeare 116
Vlll Contents.
Page
Ode to the North-east Wind . Kingsley . .116
The War-Horse . . . . . . . . Dryden . .118
Saturday .Afternoon. . . . . . Willis . . 119
Death of Marmion . . . . . . Scott . . 120
Those Evening Bells . . . Moore . .124
Introduction to "Endymion" . Keats . . 124
The Sower's Song .... Carlyle . . 125
From the "Rime of the Ancient
Mariner" . . . . . Coleridge . . 126
An Ode Sir W. Jones . 127
The Cameronian's Dream . . Hislop . . 128
Fable Emerson . . 130
From "Lays of Ancient Rome" . Macaulay . 130
To a Skylark . ... ... Shelley . . 132
The Minstrel Boy .... Moore . . 135
The Forsaken Merman ... . Arnold . . 136
The Death of the Warrior King Swain . . 140
Lucy Wordsworth . 141
Mark Antony's Oration over .
Cesar's Body .... Shakspeare . 142
The Bells . . . . . E. A. Poe . 145
The Soldier's Dream . . . Campbell. . 149
Ode to the Cuckoo .... Logan . . 149
England Ben Jonson . 150
Female Loveliness .... Wordsworth . 151
The Office of a King . . . Milton . .152
The Poetical Reader.
THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.—Pope.
Father of all ! in every age,

In every clime adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord !
Thou Great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confined ;
To know but this, that thou art good,
And that myself am blind ;
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,

To see the good from ill ;
And binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will :
What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do ;
This, teach me more than hell to shun ;
That, more than heaven pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives,
Let me not cast away ;
For God is paid when man receives ;
To enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand,
Presume thy bolts to throw,
And deal damnation round the land,
On each I judge thy foe.
If I am right, thy grace impart,

Still in the right to stay ;
If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart
To find that better way !
Save me alike from foolish pride,

Or impious discontent,
At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe,

To hide the fault I see :
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,

Since quicken'd by thy breath :
Oh, lead me wheresoe'er I go,
Through this day's life or death !
This day be bread and peace my lot :

All else beneath the sun,
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not,
And let thy will be done.
To thee, whose temple is all space ;

Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ;
One chorus let all beings raise !
All nature's incense rise !
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR—.£. Cook.
I love it, I love it ; and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm-chair %
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ?—a mother sat there ;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear ;
And gentle words that mother would give ;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide ;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on ; but the last one sped—
My idol was shattered ; my earth-star fled ;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow ;—
'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she died ;
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek ;
But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
4 The Poetical Reader.
HUNTING SONG.—Scott.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear ;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling ;
Merrily, merrily mingle they,
" Waken, lords and ladies gay."
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green ;
Now we come to chant our lay,
To the greenwood haste away ;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size ;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed.
You shall see him brought to bay ;
Louder, louder chant the lay,
" Waken, lords and ladies gay ! "
Tell them, youth, and mirth, and glee
Run a course as well as we ;
Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk 1
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.
WE ARE SEVEN.— Wordsworth.
A simple child
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death t
I met a little cottage girl :

She was eight years old, she said ;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad ;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ;
Her beauty made me glad.
" Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be 1"
" How many 1 Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.
" And where are they 1 I pray you tell."

She answered, " Seven are we ;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
" Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother ;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
" You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven ! —I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be V
This did the little maid reply,
" Seven boys and girls are we ;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."
" You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive ;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."
" Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied,
" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
" My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem ;
And there upon the ground I sit—
I sit and sing to them.
" And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
" The first that died was little Jane ;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain ;
And then she went away.
" So in the churchyard she was laid ;
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
" And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
" How many are you, then," said I,
" If they two are in Heaven V
The little maiden did reply,
" Oh, master ! we are seven."
" But they are dead ; those two are dead !
Their spirits are in Heaven !"
'Twas throwing words away : for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven !"
A PSALM OF LIFE.—Longfellow.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream !
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real ! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal ;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,.
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,—act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;
Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
CRANMER'S PREDICTION OF THE FUTURE

GREATNESS OF THE PRINCESS ELIZA
BETH.—Shakspeare.
Let me speak, sir,

For heaven now bids me, and the words I utter
Let none think flattery, for they'll find them truth :
This royal infant, (heaven still move about her !)
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness : she shall be
(But few now living can behold that goodness)
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed : Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue,
The Poetical Reader. 9
Than this pure soul shall be : all princely graces,
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
With all the virtues that attend the good,
Shall still be doubled on her : truth shall nurse her,
Holy and heavenly thoughts shall counsel her :
She shall be loved, and feared : her own shall bless her :
Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,
And hang their heads with sorrow : good grows with
her,—
In her days, every man shall eat in safety,
Under his own vine, what he plants ; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours :
God shall be truly known ; and those about her
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
Nor shall this peace sleep with her : but as when
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,
Her ashes new-create another heir,
As great in admiration as herself ;
So shall she leave her blessedness to one
(When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness),
Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour,
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,
And so stand fixed : peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,
That were the servants to this chosen infant,
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him ;
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,
His honour and the greatness of his name
Shall be and make new nations : he shall flourish,
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches
To all the plains about him :—Our children's children
Shall see this, and bless heavea
io The Poetical Reader.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.—Lamb.
I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days ;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces !
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ;
I loved a love once, fairest among women ;

Closed are her doors on me ; I must not see her ;
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ;

Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly ;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces !
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ;

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom ! thou more than a brother !

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling 1
So might we talk of the old familiar faces—
How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
TO THE RAINBOW.—Campbell.
Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky

When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all, that optics teach, unfold

Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow 1
When Science from Creation's face

Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws !
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth,
To watch thy sacred sign !
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child,
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang
On earth, delivered from the "deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

Unraptured greet thy beam ;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme !
The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down !
As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
INGRATITUDE.—Shakspeare.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind,
As man's ingratitude !
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot !
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
THE SPANISH ARMADA.—Macaulay,

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's
praise ;
I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in
ancient days,
When that great fleet invincible against her bore in
vain
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of
Spain.
It was about the lovely close of a warm summer
day,
There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to
Plymouth Bay ;
Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond
Aurigny's isle,
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a
mile ;
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial
grace ;
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close
in chase.
Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the
wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's
lofty hall ;
Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the
coast,
And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland
many a post.
With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff
comes ;
Behind him march the halberdiers ; before him sound
the drums ;
His yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear an
ample space,
For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her
Grace.
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the
bells,
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon
swells.
Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient
crown,
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies
down.
So stalked he when he turned to fight, on that famed
Picard field,
Bohemia's plume, Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle
shield.
So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay,
And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely
hunter lay.
Ho ! strike the flag-staff deep, sir Knight : ho ! scatter
flowers, fair maids :
Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, draw
your blades :
Thou sun, shine on her joyously—ye breezes, waft
her wide ;
Our glorious Semper Eadem—the banner of our pride.
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's
massy fold,
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty
scroll of gold ;
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple
sea,
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again
shall be.
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to
Milford Bay,
That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the
day;
For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-
flame spread,
High on St. Michael's mount it shone : it shone on
Beachy Head
Far on the deep the Spaniards saw, along each southern
shire,
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling
points of fire.
The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering
waves ;
The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's
sunless caves :
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the
fiery herald flew,
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers
of Beaulieu.
Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from
Bristol town,
And ere the day three hundred horse had met on
Clifton Down ;
The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the
night,
And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of
blood-red light.
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like
silence broke,
And with one start, and with one cry, the royal citywoke.
At once on all her stately gates arose the answering
fires ;
At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling
spires ;
From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the
voice of fear ;
And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a
louder cheer :
And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of
hurrying feet,
And the broad streams of pikes and flags dashed down
each roaring street ;
And broader still became the blaze, and louder still
the din,
As fast from every village round the horse came
spurring in :
And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the
warlike errand went,
And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires
of Kent.
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those
bright couriers forth ;
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started
for the north ;
And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded
still :
All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they sprang
from hill to hill :
Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's
rocky dales,
Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills
of Wales,
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's
lovely height,
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's
crest of light,
Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's
stately fane,
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the
boundless plain ;
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wild vale
of Trent ;
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's
embattled pile,
And the red glare of Skiddaw roused the burghers of
Carlisle.
A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.—Moore,

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past !
Why should we yet our sail unfurl ?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl 1
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast,
Utawas tide ! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers,
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast,
c
RING OUT THE OLD, RING IN THE

NEW.—Tennyson.
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light :
The year is dying in the night ;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow :
The year is going, let him go ;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more ;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife ;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times ;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic scandal and the spite ;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease ;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
EDWIN AND ANGELINA.—Goldsmith.

" Turn gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray.
" For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow ;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."
" Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
" To tempt the dangerous gloom ;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
" Here, to the houseless child of want,
My door is open still ;
And, though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good wilL
" Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows ;
My rushy couch, and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
" No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn ;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.
" But from the mountain's grassy side,
A guiltless feast I bring ;
A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
" Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ;
All earth-born cares are wrong :
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
Soft, as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell ;
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay ;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care ;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire,
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimmed his little fire,
And cheered his pensive guest ;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily pressed and smiled ;
And, skilled in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries.;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth ;
The crackling faggot flies.
The Poetical Reader, 21
But nothing could a charm impart,
To soothe the stranger's woe ;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answering care opprest :
And " Whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
" The sorrows of thy breast 1
" From better habitations spurned
Reluctant dost thou rove 1
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,
Or unregarded love ?
"Alas ! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay ;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
" And what is friendship but a name :
A charm that lulls to sleep !
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep !
"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modem fair-one's jest ;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said ;
But, while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betrayed.
Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies ;
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms ;
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
And, " Ah ! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried,
" Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
" But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray ;
Who seeks fox rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
" My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he ;
And all his wealth was marked as mine ;
He had but only me.
" To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumbered suitors came ;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feigned a flame.
" Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove ;
Among the rest, young Edwin bowed,
But never talked of love.
" In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he ;
Wisdom and worth were all he had ;
But these were all to me.
" The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.
" The dew, the blossom of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine ;
Their charms were his ; but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine !
" For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;
And, while his passion touched my heart,
I triumphed in his pain.
"Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride ;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
" And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die :
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
"Forbid it heaven !" the hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast ;
The wondering fair one turned to chide—
'Twas Edwin's self that prest !
" Turn Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.
" Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign ;
And shall we never, never part,
My life,—my all that's mine I
" No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true ;
The sigh, that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too !"
POLONIUS'S ADVICE TO LAERTES.—

Shakspeare.
Give thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel ;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel : but, being in,
Bear it that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice :
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy ; rich, not gaudy :
For the apparel oft proclaims the man ;
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be ;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend ;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all,—To thine ownself be true ;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
THE SUNSHINE.—Mary Howitt.
I love the sunshine everywhere—

In wood, and field, and glen ;
I love it in the busy haunts
Of town-imprisoned men.
I love it, when it streameth in

The humble cottage door,
And casts the chequered casement shade
Upon the red-brick floor.
I love it, where the children lie

Deep in the clovery grass,
To watch among the twining roots,
The gold-green beetle pass.
I love it, on the breezy sea,

To glance on sail and oar,
While the great waves, like molten glass,
Come leaping to the shore.
I love it, on the mountain-tops,

Where lies the thawless snow ;
And half a kingdom, bathed in light,
Lies stretching out below.
Oh ! yes, I love the sunshine !

Like kindness, or like mirth,
Upon a human countenance,
Is sunshine on the earth.
Upon the earth—upon the sea—-

And through the crystal air—
Or piled up clouds—the gracious sun
Is glorious everywhere.
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE-

Tennyson.
Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of death
Rode the Six .Hundred.
" Charge !" was the captain's cry,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs but to do and die :
Into the valley of death
Rode the Six Hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered ;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well ;
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouth of hell,
Rode the Six Hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed all at once in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered :
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Fiercely the line they broke ;
Strong was the sabre stroke :
Making an army reel
Shaken and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not—
Not the Six Hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered ;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
They that had struck so well
Rode through the jaws of death,
Half a league back again,
Up from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them—
Left of Six Hundred.
Honour the brave and bold I

Long shall the tale be told,
Yea, when our babes are old—
How they rode onward.
PAST AND PRESENT.—Hood.
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window, where the sun
Came peeping in at mom ;
He never came a week too soon,
Nor brought too long a day ;—
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away !
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light ;
The lilacs where the robins built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum, on his birthday :
The tree is living yet !
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing.
My spirit flew in feathers,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow,
The fir-trees dark and high ;
I used to think their slender spires,
Were close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,—
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven,
Than when I was a boy.
HONEST POVERTY.—Burns.
Is there, for honest poverty, .
That hangs his head, and a' that ;
The coward-slave we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, and a' that ;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that ;
Their tinsel show, and a' that ;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
A prince can male a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that ;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith he maunna fa' that !
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.
Then let us pray, that come it may,

As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.
It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
HOHENLINDEN.— Campbell.
On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,

Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow

On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,

Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few, few shall part where many meet !

The snow shall be their winding sheet ;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
OTHELLO'S ORATION TO THE SENATE—

Shakspeare.
Most potent, grave, and reverend Seigniors,
My very noble and approved good masters ;
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true ; true I have married her ;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent—no more. Rude am I in my speech
And little blessed with the set phrase of peace ;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field ;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ;
And therefore shall I little grace my cause,
In speaking for myself. Yet by your gracious patience
I will a round unvarnished tale deliver
Of my whole course of love : what drugs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic,
(For such proceeding I am charged withal)
I won his daughter with.
Her father loved me, oft invited me ;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it :
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field ;
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence,
And portance in my travel's history.
These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline ;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence ;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse : which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means,
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively. I did consent,
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs ;
She swore—in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange,
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful—
She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished
That heaven had made her such a man :—she thanked
me,
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ;
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
THE BETTER LAND.—Mrs, Hemans.
" I hear thee speak of the better land,

Thou call'st its children a happy band ;
Mother ! O where is that radiant shore,
Shall we not seek it and weep no more 1
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs ? "
" Not there, not there, my child ! "
" Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ?
Or midst the green islands on glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things 1 "
" Is it far away in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? "
" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy !
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy !
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair—
Sorrow and death may not enter there :
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child ! " '
EXCELSIOR.—Longfellow.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice,
A banner, with the strange device,
Excelsior !
His brow was sad ; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior !
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his' lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior !
" Try not the Pass ! " the old man said ;
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! "
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior !
" O stay ! " the maiden said, " and rest A
Thy weary head upon this breast ! "
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior !
D
" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch !
Beware the awful avalanche ! "
This was the peasant's last good night !
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior !
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior !
A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner, with the strange device,
Excelsior !
There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior! ;
. WIFE'S DUTY.—Shakspeare.
Fye ! fye ! unknit that threatening unkind brow ;

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, .
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor :
It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads ;
Confounds thy frame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds ;
And in no sense is meet, or amiable.
A woman moved, is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, hick, bereft of beauty :
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance : commits his body
To painful labour, both by sea and land ;
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe ;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands,
But love, fair looks, and true obedience ;—
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such, a woman oweth to her husband :
And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel,
And graceless traitor to her loving lord 1—
I am ashamed, that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace ;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, or sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world ;
But that our soft condition, and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts 1
THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER.—Aytoun.
Come listen to another song,

Should make your heart beat high,
Bring crimson to your forehead,
And the lustre to your eye ;—
It is a song of olden time
Of days long since gone by,
. And of a Baron stout and bold
As e'er wore sword on thigh !
Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,.
All of the olden time ! ...
He kept his castle in the north,
Hard by the thundering Spey;
And a thousand vassals dwelt around,
All of his kindred they,
And not a man of all that clan
Had ever ceased to pray
For the Royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away
From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time !
His father drew the righteous sword

For Scotland and her claims,
Among the loyal gentlemen
And chiefs of ancient names,
Who swore to fight or fall beneath
The standard of King James,
And died at Killicrankie pass
With the glory of the Graemes ;
Like a true old Scottish cavalier,
He never owned the foreign rule,

No master he obeyed,
But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid ;
And when they asked him for his oath,
He touched his glittering blade,
And pointed to his bonnet blue,
That bore the white cockade :
Like a leal old Scottish cavalier.
At length the news ran through the land—

The Prince had come again !
That night the fiery cross was sped
O'er mountain and through glen ;
And our old Baron rose in might,
Like a lion from his den,
And rode away across the hills
To Charlie and his men,
With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,
He was the first that bent the knee

When The Standard waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod ;
And ever, in the van of fight,
The foremost still he trod,
Until on bleak Culloden's heath,
He gave his soul to God,
Like a good old Scottish cavalier,
Oh ! never shall we know again

A heart so stout and true—
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new :
The fair White Rose has faded
From the garden where it grew,
And no fond tears, save those of heaven,
The glorious bed bedew ■
Of the last old Scottish cavalier,
BE KIND TO EACH OTHER.—Swain.
Be kind to each other !—

The night's coming on,
When friend and when brother
Perchance may be gone !—
Then 'midst our dejection
How sweet to have earned
The blest recollection
Of kindness— returned !
When day hath departed,
And memory keeps
Her watch, broken-hearted,
Where all she loved sleeps !—
Let falsehood assail not,
Nor envy disprove—
Let trifles prevail not
Against those ye love !—
Nor change with to-morrow,
Should fortune take wing ;
But the deeper the sorrow,
The closer still cling !—
Oh, be kind to each other !—
The night's coming on,
When friend and when brother
Perchance may be gone !
YOUNG LOCHINVAR.—Scott. .
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ;
And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,

He swam the Esk river where ford there was none ;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
The Poetical Reader." 39
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
'Mong bride'smen, 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 1
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar V
" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
" Now tread we a measure !" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace,
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
plume ;
And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young
Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger
stood near,
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung !—
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow !" quoth young
Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Grames of the Netherby
clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they
ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see !
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT-

Mrs. Blackwood.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side
On a bright May momin' long ago
When first you were my bride :
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high—
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary,

The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.
But the grave-yard lies between them, Mary,
And my step might break your rest—
For I've laid you, darling ! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh ! they love the better still,
The few our Father sends !
And you were all / had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride :
There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arms' young strength was gone ;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow—
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Tho' you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' then,
And you hid it for my sake !
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore—
Oh ! I am thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more !
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,

My Mary, kind and true !
But I'll not forget you, darlin' !
In the land I'm goin' to ;
4? The Poetical Reader.
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair !
And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies ;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side :
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.
THE SEVEN AGES.—Shakspeare.
All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits, and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms :
And then, the whining school-boy, with his Satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation,
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks ; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.—

Leigh Hunt.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold :—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
" What writest thou ? "—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord."
" And is mine one 1 " said Abou. " Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee then
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
THE BLIND BOYS BEEN AT PLAY.—E. Cook,

The Blind Boy's been at play, mother,
And many games we had ;
We led him on our way, mother,
And every step was glad.
But when we found a starry flower,
And praised its varied hue,
A tear came trembling down his cheek,
Just like a drop of dew.
We took him to the mill, mother,
Where falling waters made
A rainbow o'er the rill, mother,
As golden sun-rays played ;
But when we shouted at the scene,
And hailed the clear blue sky,
He stood quite still upon the bank,
And breathed a long, long sigh.
We asked him why he wept, mother,
Where'er we found the spots.
Where periwinkle crept, mother,
O'er wild forget-me-nots :
" Ah, me ! " he said, while tears ran down
As fast as summer showers,
" It is because I cannot see
The sunshine and the flowers."
Oh, that poor sightless boy, mother,
Has taught me I am blest,
For I can look with joy, mother,
On all I love the best,
And when I see the dancing stream,
And daisies red and white,
I'll kneel upon the meadow sod,
And thank my God for sight.
WATERLOO.—Byron.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell ;
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 !
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear ;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell :
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise ?
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 ;
46 The Poetical Reader!
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star :
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips—"The foe! They
come ! They come ! "
And wild and high the "Camerons' gathering" rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes :—
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill ! but, with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fills the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years :
And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,—alas !
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and
low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife ;
The morn, the marshalling in arms ; the day,
Battle's magnificently stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent !
MORNING SONG.—Cunningham,
Oh, come ! for the lily-
Is white on the lea ;
Oh, come ! for the wood-doves
Are paired on the tree :
The lark sings with dew
On her wings and her feet ;
The thrush pours his ditty,
Loud, varied, and sweet :
So come where the twin-hares
'Mid fragrance have been,
And with flowers I will weave thee
A crown like a queen.
Oh, come ! hark the throstle

Invites you aloud ;
And wild comes the plover's cry
Down from the cloud :
The stream lifts its voice,
And yon daisy's begun
To part its red lips
And drink dew in the sun.
The sky laughs in light,
Earth rejoices in green—
So come, and I'll crown thee
With flowers like a queen !
Oh, haste ! hark the shepherd . -

Hath wakened his pipe,
And -led out his lambs
Where the blackberry's ripe :
The bright sun is tasting
The dew on the thyme ;
Yon glad maiden's lilting
An old bridal-rhyme.
There's joy in the heaven
And gladness on earth—
So, come to the sunshine,
And mix in the mirth.
MERCY.—Shakspeare.
The quality of mercy is not strained ;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed ;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown :
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of Kings ;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway ;
It is enthroned in the heart of Kings ;
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,—
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.
LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF

GLENCAIRN.—Bums.
The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam
Looked on the fading yellow woods
That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream :
Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard
Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewailed his lord,
Whom death had all untimely ta'en.
He leaned him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ;
His locks were bleached white wi' time !
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears !
And as he touched his trembling harp,
And as he tuned his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting through their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.
" Ye scattered birds that faintly sing,

The reliques of the vernal choir !
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The honours of the aged year !
A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye'U charm the ear and e'e ;
But nocht in all revolving time
Can gladness bring again to me.
" I am a bending aged tree,

(That long has stood the wind and rain :
But now has come a cruel blast,
And my last hald of earth is gane :
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,
Nae summer sun exalt my bloom ;
But I maun lie before the storm,
And ithers plant them in my room.
' " I've seen sae mony changefu' years,

On earth I am a stranger grown ;
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing and unknown :
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,
I bear alane my lade o' care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,
Lie a' that would my sorrows share.
" And last (the sum of a' my griefs ! )

My noble master lies in clay ;
The flow'r amang our barons bold,
His country's pride, his country's stay ;
In weary being now I pine,
For a' the life of life is dead,
And hope has left my aged ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.
"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp !

The voice of woe and wild despair !
Awake, resound thy latest lay,
Then sleep in silence evermair !
And thou, my last, best, only friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,
Accept this tribute from the Bard
Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.
" In poverty's low barren vale,

Thick mists, obscure, involved me round ;
Though oft I turned the wistful eye,
No ray of fame was to be found :
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air ;
The friendless Bard and rustic song,
Became alike thy fostering care.
" Oh ! why has worth so short a date 1

While villains ripen gray with time 1
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime !
Why did I live to see that day ?
A day to me so full of woe !
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low !
" The bridegroom may forget the bride

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been :
The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ;
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou hast done for me ! "
HAPPINESS DEPENDS ON MAN'S IGNO

RANCE OF FUTURE EVENTS, AND ON
HIS HOPE OF A FUTURE STATE.—Pope.
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate ;

All but the page prescribed, their present state ;
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know ;
Or who could suffer being here below ?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play 1
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
O, blindness to the future ! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven ;
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ;
Atoms or systems into ruin hurled ;
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar
Wait the great teacher, Death, and God adore :
Wait future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast :
Man never is, but always to be blest :
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way ;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topped hill,- a humbler heaven ;
Some safer world in depths of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold ;
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To Be, contents his natural desire ;
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.—Hood.

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in Unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt !"
" Work ! work ! work !
While the cock is crowing aloof !
And work ! work ! work !
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh ! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work !
Till the brain begins to swim ;
Work ! work ! work !
Till the eyes are heavy and dim !
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream !
Oh, Men, with Sisters dear !

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives !
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives !
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch !
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
" But why do I talk of Death 1

That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own—:
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep,
Oh, God ! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap !
" Work ! work ! work t

My labour never flags •
And what are its wages 1 A bed of straw,
A crust of bread—and rags.
That shattered roof—and this naked floor-
A table—a broken chair—
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there !
From weary chime to chime,
Work ! work ! work !
As prisoners work for crime !
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

In the dull December light ;
And work ! work ! work !
When the weather is warm and bright-
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.
"Oh ! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal !
" Oh, but for one short hour !

A respite however brief !
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief !
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread ! "
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich !
She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! "
TRY AGAIN.—E. Cook.

King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down
In a lonely mood to think ;
'Tis true he was a monarch, and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.
For he had been trying to do a great deed,
To make his people glad,
He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed,
And so he became quite sad.
He flung himself down in low despair,
As grieved as man could be ;
And after a while as he pondered there,
" I'll give it all up," said he.
Now just at the moment a spider dropped,
With its silken cobweb clue,
And the King in the midst of his thinking stopped,
To see what the spider would do.
'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,
And it hung by a rope so fine,
That how it would get to its cobweb home,
King Bruce could not divine.
It soon began to cling and crawl
Straight up with strong endeavour,
But down it came, with a slipping sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.
Up, up it ran ; not a second it stayed,
To utter the least complaint,
Till it fell still lower, and there it laid,
A little dizzy and faint. •
Its head grew steady—again it went,

And travelled a half-yard higher.
'Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,
And a road where its feet would tire.
Again it fell and swung below,
But again it quickly mounted,
Till up and down, now fast, now slow,
Nine brave attempts were counted.
" Sure," cried the King, " that foolish thing
Will strive no more to climb,
When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time."
But up the insect went once more,—
Ah me, 'tis an anxious minute,
He's only a foot from his cobweb door,
Oh, say, will he lose or win it !
Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,
Higher and higher he got,
And a bold little run at the very last pinch,
Put him into his native cot.
" Bravo, bravo ! " the King cried out,
" All honour to those who try !
The spider up there, defied despair,
He conquered, and why shouldn't II"
And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,
And gossips tell the tale,
That he tried once more, as he tried before,
And that time did not fail.
Pay goodly heed, all you who read,
And beware of saying, " I carit ; "
'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead
To Idleness, Folly, and Want.
Whenever you find your heart despair

Of doing some goodly thing,
Con over this strain, try bravely again,
And remember the Spider and King !
BONNY DUNDEE.—Scott.
To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who

spoke :—
" Ere the king's crown shall fall, there are crowns to
be broke ;
So let each cavalier who loves honour and me,
Come follow the bonnet of bonny Dundee !
Come, fill up my cup ; come, fill up my can ;
Come, saddle your horses, and call up your men ;
Come, open the west port, and let me gang free,
And it's room for the bonnets of bonny Dundee !"
Dundee he is mounted and rides up the street,

The bells are rung backwards, the drums they are beat,
But the provost, douce man, said "Just e'en let him
be;
The gude town is well quit of that deil of Dundee ! "
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,

Ilk carline was flying and shaking her pow ;
But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and
slee,
Thinking "Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonny Dundee !"
With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was
crammed,
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ;
There was spite in each look, there was fear in
each ee,
As they watched for the bonnets of bonny Dundee !
The cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,

And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers ;
But they shrunk to close heads, and the causeway was
free
At the toss of the bonnet of bonny Dundee !
He spurred to the foot of the proud castle-rock,

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke :—
" Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words
or three,
For the love of the bonnet of bonny Dundee !"
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes ;

" Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose !
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of bonny Dundee !
" There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond

Forth ;
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the
north :
There are wild Dunnies wassals three thousand times
three
Will cry ' hoigh ' for the bonnets of bonny Dundee !
" There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide ;

There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside ;
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of bonny Dundee 1
" Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,
Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox :
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee :
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me ! "
He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were

blown,
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on,
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee
Died away the wild war-notes of bonny Dundee !
" Come, fill up my cup ; come, fill up my can ;
Come, saddle the horses ; come, call up the men ;
Come, open your gates, and let me go free,
For it's up with the bonnet of bonny Dundee ! "
HO ! BREAKERS ON THE WEATHER BOW.

Swain.
Ho ! breakers on the weather bow,

And hissing white the sea ;
Go, loose the topsail, mariner,
And set the helm a-lee ;
And set the helm a-lee, my boys,
And shift her while ye may ;
Or not a living soul on board
Will view the light of day.
Aloft the seaman daringly

Shook out the rattling sail ;
The danger fled—she leapt a-head
Like wild stag through the gale ;
Like wild stag through the gale, my boys,
All panting as in fear,
And trembling as her spirit knew
Destruction in the rear !
Now slacken speed—take wary heed—
All hands haul home the sheet ;
To Him who saves, amidst the waves,
Let each their prayer repeat :
Let each their prayer repeat, my boys,
For but a moment's gain
Lay 'tween our breath and instant death
Within that howling main.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.—Longfellow.

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands ;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands ;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan ;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow ;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door ;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a thrashing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys ;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies ;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes ;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close ;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought ;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought !
IVRY.—Macaulay.
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all

glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of
Navarre !
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of
dance,
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh
pleasant land of France !
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of
the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning
daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our
joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still are they, who wrought
thy walls annoy.
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance
of war,
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre !
Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn
of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long
array ;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish
spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of
our land ;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in
his hand ;
And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's
empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair, all dabbled with his
blood ;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate
of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of
Navarre !
The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour
drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his
gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern
and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing
to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our
Lord the King."
" An if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the
ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day, the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled

din,
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring
culverin.
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's
plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of
France,
Charge for the golden lilies,—upon them with the
lance.
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears
in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the
snow-white crest ;
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a
guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of
Navarre.
Now God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath

turned his rein,
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count
is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a
Biscay gale ;
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags,
and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along
our van,
" Remember Saint Bartholomew !" was passed from
man to man.
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 1
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 hath ta'en the cornet
white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white has
ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false
Lorraine.
Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all the host may
know
How God hath humbled the proud house, which
wrought his church such woe.
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their
loudest point of war,
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of
Navarre.
Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of Lucerne !
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never
shall return.
Ho ! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor
spearmen's souls.
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your
arms be bright ;
Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and
ward to-night.
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath
raised the slave,
And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valour
of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories
are ;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of
Navarre.
KINGS.—Shakspeare.
For within the hollow crown,

That rounds the mortal temples of a King,
Keeps Death his court : and there the antic sits
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp :
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchise, be feared, and kill with looks ;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable : and humoured thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle-walls, and—farewell, King !
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence : throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty ;
For you have but mistook me all this while :
F
I live on bread like you, feel want like you,
Taste grief, need friends, like you : subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a King 1
SUMMER SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY

GIRL.
It is summer ! it is summer ! how beautiful it

looks ;
There is sunshine on the old gray hills, and sunshine
on the brooks ;
A singing-bird on every bough, soft perfumes on the
air,
A happy smile on each young lip, and gladness every
where.
Oh ! is it not a pleasant thing to wander through the

woods,
To look upon the painted flowers, and watch the
opening buds ;
Or seated in the deep cool shade at some tall ash-
tree's root,
To fill my little basket with the sweet and scented
fruit?
They tell me that my father's poor—that is no grief

to me
When such a blue and brilliant sky my upturned eye
can see ;
They tell me, too, that richer girls can sport with toy
and gem ;
It may be so—and yet, methinks, I do not envy
them.
When forth I go upon my way, a thousand toys are
mine,
The clusters of dark violets, the wreaths of the wild
vine ;
My jewels are the primrose pale, the bind-weed, and
the rose ;
And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than
those.
And then the fruit ! the glowing fruit, how sweet the
scent it breathes !
I love to see its crimson cheek rest on the bright
green leaves !
Summer's own gift of luxury, in which the poor may
share,
The wild-wood fruit my eager eye is seeking every
where.
Oh ! summer is a pleasant time, with all its sounds
and sights ;
Its dewy mornings, balmy eves, and tranquil calm
delights ;
I sigh when first I see the leaves fall yellow on the
plain,
And all the winter long I sing—Sweet summer, come
again.
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.—Campbell.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry !
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."
"Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,
This dark and stormy water 1"
" Oh ! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
" And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
" His horsemen hard behind us ride ;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who would cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover V
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
" I'll go, my chief—I'm ready :
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady :
" And, by my word ! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking ;
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed 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 gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore—
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover !
One lovely arm was stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.
" Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief,
" Across this stormy water ;
And I'll forgive your Highland chief—
My daughter !—oh ! my daughter !"
'Twas vain !—the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing :—
The waters wild went o'er his child—
And he was left lamenting.
THE THREE FISHERS.—Kingsley.

Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down ;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out ofthe town ;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the
shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.
jo The Poetical Reader.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town ;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
RULE, BRITANNIA.— Thomson.

When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung the strain :
Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves !
Britons never shall be slaves.
The nations not so blest as thee

Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke ;
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ;

All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign ;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine ;
All shall be subject to the main,
And every shore it circles thine.
The Poetical Reader. yi
The muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair ;
Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves !
Britons never shall be slaves.
COMMONWEALTH OF BEES.—Shakspeare.
So work the honey bees ;
Creatures, that by a rule in nature, teach
The art of order to a peopled Kingdom.
They have a King, and officers of sorts ;
Where some, like magistrates, correct at home ;
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad ;
Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,
Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds,
Which pillage, they with merry march bring home
To the tent royal of their emperor,
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
The singing mason building roofs of gold ;
The civil citizens kneading up the honey ;
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate ;
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale
The lazy, yawning drone.
PEACE.—Herbert.
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell 1 I humbly crave
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And asked if Peace were there.
A hollow wind did seem to answer, " No ;
Go seek elsewhere."
I did ; and, going, did a rainbow note :
" Surely," thought I,
" This is the lace of Peace's coat :
I will search out the matter."
But, while I looked, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.
Then went I to a garden, and did spy

A gallant flower,—
The crown imperial. " Sure," said I,
" Peace at the root must dwell."
But, when I digged, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.
At length I met a reverend, good old man,

Whom, when for Peace
I did demand, he thus began :—
" There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.
" He sweetly lived ; yet sweetness did not save

His life from foes.
But, after death, out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat,
Which, many wondering at, got some of those
To plant and set.
" It prospered Strangely, and did soon disperse

Through all the earth ;
For they that taste it do rehearse
That virtue lies therein,—
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sin.
" Take of this grain which in my garden grows,
And grows for you.
Make bread of it ; and that repose
And peace, which everywhere
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there."
THE BROOK.—Tennyson.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges ;
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my bank I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers,
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows ;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses ;
I linger by my shingly bars ;
I loiter round my cresses ;
And out again I curve and flow
, To join the brimming river,
CASA BIANCA—Mrs. Hemans.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled ;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm ;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames rolled on—he would not go,
Without his father's word ;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud :—" Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done ?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father !" once again he cried,
" If I may yet be gone !
And"—but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound,—
The boy,—oh ! where was he !
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,—
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young and faithful heart.
THE LAST MINSTREL.—Scoff.

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The minstrel was infirm and old ;
His withered cheek and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day ;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sang of Border chivalry.
For, well-a-day ! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead ;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfry borne,
He carolled, light as lark at morn ;
No longer, courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay ;
Old times were changed, old manners gone ;
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ;
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door ;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a king had loved to hear.
He passed where Newark's stately tower
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower :
The minstrel gazed with wistful eye—
No humbler resting-place was nigh.
With hesitating step, at last,
The embattled portal-arch he passed,
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar
Had oft rolled back the tide of war,
But never closed the iron door
Against the desolate and poor.
The Duchess marked his weary pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell,
That they should tend the old man well :
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree ;
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom,
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb !
When kindness had his wants supplied,
And the old man was gratified,
Began to rise his minstrel pride :
And, would the noble Duchess deign,
To listen to an old man's strain,
Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak,
He thought e'en yet, the sooth to speak,
That, if she loved the harp to hear,
He could make music to her ear.
The humble boon was soon obtained ;
The aged minstrel audience gained.
But, when he reached the room of state,
Where she, with all her ladies, sate,
Perchance he wished his boon denied :
For when to tune his harp he tried,
His trembling hand had lost the ease, -
Which marks security to please ;
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain,
Came wildering o'er his aged brain—.
He tried to tune his harp in vain.
The pitying Duchess praised its chime,
And gave him heart, and gave him time,
Till every string's according glee
Was blended into harmony.
And then, he said, he would full fain
He could recall an ancient strain
He never thought to sing again.
It was not framed for village churls,
But for high dames and mighty earls ;
He had played it to King Charles the Good
When he kept court in Holyrood ;
And much he wished, yet feared, to try,
The long-forgotten melody.
Amid the strings his fingers strayed,
And an uncertain warbling made—
And oft he shook his hoary head :
But when he caught the measure wild,
The old man raised his face, and smiled ;
And lighted up his faded eye,
With all a poet's ecstasy !
In varying cadence, soft or strong,
He swept the sounding chords along ;
The present scene, the future lot,
His toils, his wants, were all forgot ;
Cold diffidence, and age's frost,
In the full tide of song were lost ;
Each blank in faithless memory void,
The poet's glowing thought supplied ;
And while his harp responsive rung,
'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung.
DOOMSDAY.—Shakspeare.
Our revels now are ended : these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air ;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind ! We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
THERE'S A GOOD TIME COMING.—Mackay.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming :
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought's a weapon stronger ;
We'll win our battle by its aid—
Wait a little longer.

The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger ;
The proper impulse has been given ;—

War in all men's eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity
In the good time coming ;
Nations shall not quarrel then,
To prove which is the stronger,
Nor slaughter men for glory's sake—
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger,
And Charity shall trim her lamp ;—
Let us aid it all we can,
Every woman, every man,
The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger ;
'Twill be strong enough one day ;—
MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.—Southey.

Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express 1
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ;
She never complains, but her silence implies ,
The composure of settled distress.
No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek ;
Nor for raiment nor food doth she care :
Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak
On that withered breast, and her weather-worn cheek
Hath the hue of a mortal despair.
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the maniac hath been ;
The Traveller remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,
As she welcomed them in with a smile ;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night,
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life :
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say,
That she was too good for his wife.
'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,
And fast were the windows and door ;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listened to hear the wind roar.
" 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fireside,
To hear the wind whistle without."
" What a night for the Abbey ! " his comrade replied,
" Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried,
Who should wander the ruins about.
" I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head ;
And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit appear,
For this wind might awaken the dead ! "
" I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
" That Mary would venture there now."
" Then wager, and lose ! " with a sneer he replied,
" I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,
And faint if she saw a white cow."
G
82. The Poetical Reader.
" Will Mary this charge on her courage allow 1 "
His companion exclaimed with a smile
" I shall win, for I know she will venture there now,
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough
From the elder that grows in the aisle."
With fearless good humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent ;
The night it was gloomy, the wind it was high ;
And, as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.
O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid,
Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight ;
Through the gateway she entered —she felt not afraid ;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile ;
Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,
Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.
Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gathered the bough ;
When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear,
She paused, and she listened intently to hear,
And her heart panted painfully now.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listened— nought else could she hear,
The wind fell, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread
Of footsteps approaching her near.
Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there :
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.
The Poetical Reader, 83
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold,
Again the rough wind hurried by,—
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold !
Even close to the feet of. poor Mary it rolled ;
She fell—and expected to die.
" Curse the hat ! " he exclaims. " Nay, come on till
we hide
The dead body," his comrade replies.
She beholds them in safety pass on by her side,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,
And fast through the Abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door,
She gazed in her terror. around ;
Then her limbs could support their faint burden no
more,
But, exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.
Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view ;
Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For what a cold horror then thrilled through her heart,
When the name of her Richard she knew !
Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by,
His gibbet is now to be seen ;
His irons you still from the road may espy ;
The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh
Of poor Mary the Maid of the Inn.
BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS, BEFORE THE

BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.—Burns.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory ! . .
r
Now's the day, and noVs the hour ;
See the front o' battle lour ;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery !
Wha will be a traitor knave 1
Wha can fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave 1
Let him turn and flee !
Wha for Scotland's King and law

Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Let him follow me !
By oppression's woes and pains !

By our sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free.!
Lay the proud usurpers low !

Tyrants fall in every foe !
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or die !
LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDR— Wordsworth.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray :
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;

She dwelt on a wild moor,—
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door !
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green :
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
" To-night will be a stormy night—
You to the town must go ;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
" That, father ! will I gladly do ;
'Tis scarcely afternoon—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon."
At this the father raised his hook
And snapped a faggot band ;
He plied his work ;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time ;
She wandered up and down ;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents, all that night,
Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stood,
That overlooked the moor ;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
And, turning homeward, now they cried,
" In heaven we all shall meet !'"
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small :
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall :
And then an open field they crossed ;
The marks were still the same ;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost ;
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank ;
And further there were none !
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind ;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. — Goldsmith.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school ;
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning's face ;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned :
Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault ;
The village all declared how much he knew ;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ;
And e'en the story ran— that he could gauge ;
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ;
While words of learned length, and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics, ranged around ;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY

CHURCHYARD.— Gray.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
. Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 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 twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing hom,
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.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ;
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ;
How jocund did they drive their team afield !
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour ;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted
vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath 1
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death 1
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire ;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the souL
Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear :
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood ;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet eVn these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered
muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply :
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind 1
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured Dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate ;
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove :
Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill ;
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ;
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne ;
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
The Epitaph.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown ;
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.
The Poetical Reader." 91
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompence as largely send ;
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear ;
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike, in trembling hope, repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
KING ARTHUR.—Mant.
Tell me not of Arthur's table,

As a vague, uncertain rhyme ;
Must our good be all a fable,
Only true our deeds of crime ?
Doth the past deserve our scorning,
Dimly mirrored from afar,
Like a twilight without morning,
Like a midnight without star 1
Sires of future generations,
We are sons of ages gone,
Tribes and families and nations,
Varying as they journey on.
Each retain the genuine features
Of the parent stock of old ;
Ruder forms, and hardier natures,
Not less true, and not less bold.
Every warrior in his glory,
Every patriot in his fame,
Hath a prototype in story,
In some well-remembered name ;
Name which there is no forgetting,
Though the deeds have passed from sight ;
Gem which has survived its setting,
Floating in its own clear light.
As each star, which in the distance
Feebly, faintly, glimmers here,
Represents a sun's existence,
Brightening its peculiar sphere ;
So each mystic tale descending,
Through time's shadowy vaults below,
Upward leads our thoughts, ascending
To the truths from whence they flow.
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.—Mrs. Hemans.
The stately Homes of England,

How beautiful they stand !
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land !
The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry Homes of England !
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light !
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told ;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed Homes of England !

How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours !
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn ;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage Homes of England !
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves ;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair Homes of England !
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall !
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God !
THE VILLAGE PREACHER.— Goldsmith.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ;
Remote from towns, he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train ;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ;
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were
won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to
glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their wo ;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ;
But, in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place ;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway ;
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
E'en children followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile ;
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
VERSES
Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk
during his solitary abode in the island of
Juan Fernandez.— Cowper.
I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute ;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
0 Solitude ! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face 1
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.
1 am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see ;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again !
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion ! what treasures untold
Reside in that heavenly word !
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford !
But the sound of the church-going bell,
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when the Sabbath appeared.
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 t
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is the glance of the mind !

Compared with the speed of its -flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there ;
But alas ! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair ;
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought !
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot
SOME MURMUR WHEN THEIR SKY IS

CLEAR.— Trench.
Some murmur, when their sky is clear

And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue ;
And some with thankful love are filled,
If but one streak of light,
One ray of God's good mercy, gild
The darkness of their night.
In palaces are hearts that ask,

In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,
And all good things denied ;
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How Love has in their aid
(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.—Campbell.
Ye mariners of England !
That guard our native seas ;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze !
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe !
And sweep through the deep
While the stormy tempests blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
H
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave !
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave ;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep
While the stormy tempests blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long,
Britannia needs no bulwark,

No towers along the steep ;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore
When the stormy tempests blow ;
When the battle rages loud and long,
The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn ;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow ;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow I
ODE TO DUTY.— Wordsworth.
Stern daughter of the voice of God !

O Duty ! if that name thou love,
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove ;
Thou who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe ;
From vain temptations dost set free ;
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity !
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them ; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth :
Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ;
Who do thy work, and know it not :
May joy be theirs while life shall last !
And thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast 1
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And blest are they who in the main
This faith, e'en now, do entertain :
Live in the spirit of this creed ;
Yet find that other strength, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried ;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust :
Full oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task imposed, from day to day ;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
ioo The Poetical Reader.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control ;
But in the quietness of thought :
Me this unchartered freedom tires ;
I feel the weight of chance desires :
My hopes no more must change their name ;
I long for a repose which ever is the same.
Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace ;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face :
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ;
And fragrance in thy footing treads ;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ;
\nd the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh
and strong.
To humbler functions, awful power !
I call thee : I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour ;
Oh ! let my weakness have an end !
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice ;
The confidence of reason give ;
And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live !
THE EXILE OF ERIN.— Campbell.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin ;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ;
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion ;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
" Sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger :
" The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet
hours ;
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh.
" Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ;
But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more !
Oh, cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me !
Never again shall my brothers embrace me !
They died to defend me, or live to deplore !
" Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood ?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood 1
And where is the bosom friend dearer than all 1
Ah ! my sad heart, long abandoned by pleasure !
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure 1
Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure ;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
" Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ;
Erin ! an Exile bequeaths thee his blessing !
Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh !
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean !
And thy harp-stringing bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin, mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!"
FLOWERS IN CHILDHOOD AND AGE.-

Mrs. Sigourney.
The flowers were beautiful to me,
When childhood lured the way
Along the green and sunny slope,
Or through the groves to stray.
They were to me as playmates dear,
And when upon my knee
I whispered to them in their beds,
Methought they answered me.
I bent to kiss them, where they grew,
And smiling bore away
On lip and cheek the diamond dew,
That glittering decked their spray.
The bud, on which no eye hath glanced,
Save His who formed its pride,
Seemed as a sister to my heart,
For it had none beside.
Then countless gay and fairy forms
Gleamed by, on pinions rare,
And many a castle's turret bright
Was pictured on the air ;
For Fancy held me so in thrall
And peopled every scene,
That flowers might only fill the space
A thousand joys between.
But as life's river nears its goal,
And glittering bubbles break,
The love of flowers is like his grasp
Whom stronger props forsake,
Who, drifting towards some wintry clime,
Hangs o'er the vessel's side
To snatch one faded wreath of hope
From out the whelming tide.
Like his, who on the isthmus stands
Whose ever-crumbling verge
Divides the weary race of time
From death's advancing surge,
And sees, to cheer its dreary strand,
Pale Memory's leaflets start,
And binds them, as a blessed balm,
To heal his lonely heart.
VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.—Byron.
The King was on his throne,
The Satraps thronged the hall ;
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed divine—
Jehovah's vessels hold
The godless Heathen's wine.
In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand :
The fingers of a man ;—
A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
The monarch saw, and shook,

And bade no more rejoice ;
All bloodless waxed his look,
And tremulous his voice.
" Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth."
Chaldea's seers are good,
But here they have no skill ;
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age
Are wise and deep in lore ;
But now they were not sage,
They saw—but knew no more.
A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,
He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view ;
He read it on that night,—
The morrow proved it true.
" Belshazzar's grave is made,

His kingdom passed away,
He, in the balance weighed,
Is light and worthless clay.
The shroud, his robe of state,
His canopy the stone :
The Mede is at his gate !
The Persian on his throne ! "
THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW. — A

MIDSUMMER LEGEND.—Mary Howitt.
" And where have you been, my Mary,

And where have you been from me V
" I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low
The Midsummer night to see !"
" And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low 1"
" I saw the blithe sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow."
"And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon Hill V
" I heard the drops of the water made,
And the green corn ears to fill."
" Oh, tell me all, my Mary—
All, all that ever you know ;
For you must have seen the fairies,
Last night on the Caldon-Low."
" Then take me on your knee, mother,
And listen, mother of mine :
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine.
" And merry was the glee of the harp-strings,
And their dancing feet so small ;
But, oh, the sound of their talking
Was merrier far than all !"
" And what were the words, my Mary,
That you did hear them say V
" I'll tell you all, my mother—
But let me have my way !
" And some they played with the water,
And rolled it down the hill ;
' And this,' they said, ' shall speedily turn.
The poor old miller's mill ;
" ' For there has been no water
Ever since the first of May ;
And a busy man shall the miller be
By the dawning of the day !
" ' Oh, the miller, how he will laugh,
When he sees the mill-dam rise !
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh,
Till the tears fill both his eyes ! '
"And some they seized the little winds,
That sounded over the hill,
And each put a horn into his mouth,
And blew so sharp and shrill :—
" ' And there,' said they, ' the merry winds go,
Away from every horn ;
And those shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow's corn :
" ' Oh, the poor, blind old widow—
Though she has been blind so long,
She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,
And the corn stands stiff and strong ! '
" And some they brought the brown lintseed,
And flung it down from the Low—
' And this,' said they, ' by the sunrise,
In the weaver's croft shall grow !
" ' Oh, the poor, lame weaver,
How he will laugh outright,
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night ! '
" And then upspoke a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin—
' I have spun up all the tow,' said he,
' And I want some more to spin.
" ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another—
A little sheet for Mary's bed.
And an apron for her mother !'
" And with that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free ;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low
There was no one left but me.
" And all, on the top of the Caldon-Low,
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.
" But, as I came down from the hill-top,
I heard, afar below,
How busy the jolly miller was,
And how merry the wheel did go !
" And I peeped into the widow's field ;
And, sure enough, was seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn
All standing stiff and green.
"And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were high ;
But I saw the weaver at his gate
With the good news in his eye !
" Now, this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see ;
So, prithee, make my bed, mother,
For I'm tired as I can be !"
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB—

Byron.
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 withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed 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 rolled 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 !
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.— Wolfe.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried ;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
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.
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 !
FROM " L'ALLEGRO."—Milton.

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek ;
no The Poetical Reader.
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come and trip it as you go
On the light fantastic toe ;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty :
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free :
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good-morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine :
While the cock, with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn door,
Stoutly struts his dames before :
Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill :
Sometimes walking not unseen
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great sun begins his state,
Robed in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight ;
While the ploughman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale,
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
While the landscape round it measures ;
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest ;
Meadows trim with daisies pied :
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide :
Towers and battlements it sees,
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
THE DISSOLUTION OF FRIENDSHIP.—

Coleridge.
Alas ! they had been friends in youth ;
But whispering tongues can poison truth ;
And constancy lives in realms above ;
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain :
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insults to his heart's best brother :
They parted—ne'er to meet again !
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining ;
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder :
A dreary sea now flows between.
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.— Tennyson.
In her ear he whispers gaily,

" If my heart by signs can tell,
Maiden, I have watched thee daily,
And I think thou lov'st me well."
She replies, in accents fainter,
" There is none I love like thee : "
He is but a landscape painter,
And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,
Presses his without reproof :
Leads her to the village altar,
And they leave her father's roof.
" I can make no marriage present ;
Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life."
They by parks and lodges going
See the lordly castles stand ;
Summer woods, about them blowing,
Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well,
" Let us see these handsome houses
Where the wealthy nobles dwell."
So she goes by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers ;
Parks with oaks and chestnut shady,
Parks and ordered gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer :
Evermore she seems to gaze
On that cottage growing nearer,
Where they twain will spend their days.
O but she will love him truly !
He shall have a cheerful home ;
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns ;
Sees a mansion more majestic
Than all those she saw before :
Many a gallant gay domestic
Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footsteps firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
" All of this is mine and thine."
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county
Is so great a lord as he.
All at once the colour flushes
Her sweet face from brow to chin :
As it were with shame she blushes,
And her spirit changed within.
Then her countenance all over
Pale again as death did prove :
But he clasped her like a lover,
And he cheered her soul with love.
So she strove against her weakness,
Tho' at times her spirits sank :
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness
To all duties of her rank :
And a gentle consort made he,
And her gentle mind was such
That she grew a noble lady,
And the people loved her much.
But a trouble weighed upon her,
And perplexed her night and morn,
With the burthen of an honour
Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
As she murmured, " Oh, that he
Were once more that landscape painter,
Which did win my heart from me ! "
So she drooped and drooped before him,
Fading slowly from his side :
Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early,
Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her,
And he looked at her and said,
" Bring the dress and put it on her
That she wore when she was wed."
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.
SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING—

Motherwell.
Our bark is on the waters deep, our bright blades in
our hand,
Our birthright is the ocean vast—we scorn the girdled
land ;
And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can
bolder be
Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a proud
and swelling sea !
Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts
quivering bend
Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo of a
friend ;
And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled billows'
foam,
While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer old
Ocean as our home !
Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant
wind,
And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim mean
speck behind ;
We shoot into the untracked deep, as earth-freed
spirits soar,
Like stars of fire through boundless space—through
realms without a shore !
Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we
bound free,
The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereignty ;
No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of man
can mete
The sky which arches o'er our head—the waves which
kiss our feet !
The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, in
his pride ;
But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast—the untamed
ocean tide ;
And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the
saucy wave,
While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories
of the brave.
Hurrah ! Hurrah ! the wind is up—it bloweth fresh
and free,
n6 The Poetical Reader.
And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless
glee ;
Big swell the bosomed sails with joy, and they madly
kiss the spray,
As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea-King
bears away !
DEATH OF WARWICK.—Shakspeare.
My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows
That I must yield my body to the earth,
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.
Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle ;
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept ;
Whose top-branch overpeered Jove's spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind.
These eyes, that now are dimmed with death's black
veil,
Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun
To search the secret treasons of the world :
The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood,
Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres ;
For who lived king but I could dig his grave ?
And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow 1
Lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood !
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Even now forsake me ; and of all my lands
Is nothing left me but my body's length !
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust 1
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.—Kingshy.

Welcome, wild North-easter !
Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr ;
Ne'er a verse to thee.
Welcome, black North-easter !
O'er the German foam ;
O'er the Danish moorlands,
From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,
Tired of gaudy glare,
Showers soft and steaming,
Hot and breathless air.
Tired of listless dreaming,
Through the lazy day :
Jovial wind of winter
Turn us out to play !
Sweep the golden reed-beds ;
Crisp the lazy dyke ;
Hunger into madness
Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild fowl ;
Fill the marsh with snipe ;
While on dreary moorlands
Lonely curlew pipe.
Through the black fir-forest
Thunder harsh and dry,
Shattering down the snow flakes
Off the curdled sky.
Hark ! The brave North-easter !
Breast-high lies the scent,
On by holt and headland,
Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Through the sleet and snow.
Who can over-ride you ?
Let the horses go !
Chime, ye dappled darlings,
Down the roaring blast ;
You shall see a fox die
Ere an hour be past.
Go ! and rest to-morrow,
1 18 The Poetical Reader:
Hunting in your dreams,
While our skates are ringing
O'er the frozen streams.
Let the luscious South-wind
Breathe in lovers' sighs,
While the lazy gallants
Bask in ladies' eyes.
What does he but soften
Heart alike and pen 1
'Tis the hard gray winter
Breeds hard Englishmen.
What's the soft South-wester ?
'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Bringing home their true loves
Out of all the seas :
But the black North-easter,
Through the snow-storm hurled,
Drives out English hearts of oak
Seaward round the world.
Come, as came our fathers,
Heralded by thee,
Conquering from the eastward,
Lords by land and sea.
Come ; and strong within us
Stir the Vikings' blood ;
Bracing brain and sinew ;
Blow, thou wind of God !
THE WAR HORSE—Dryden.

The fiery courser, when he hears from far
The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war,
Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight,
Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promised fight
On his right shoulder his thick mane reclined
Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind.
The Poetical Reader. 1 19
Eager he stands,—then, starting with a bound,
He spurns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow,
He bears his rider headlong on the foe !
SATURDAY AFTERNOON.— Willis.

I love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray ;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice
And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the earth for fourscore years ;
And they say that I am old ;
And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.
It is very true, it is very true ;
I'm old, and " I bide my time ;"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.
Play on, play on ; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring ;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip on the reedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go ;
For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low ;
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
On treading its gloomy way ;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.
DEATH OF MARMION.—Scott.
With that, straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen drenched with gore,
And in their arms, a helpless load,
A wounded knight they bore.
His hand still strained the broken brand ;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand.
Dragged from among the horses' feet,
With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . .
Young Blount his armour did unlace,
And, gazing on his ghastly face,
Said,—" By Saint George, he's gone !
That spear-wound has our master sped,
And see the deep cut on his head !
Good night to Marmion."—
" Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease :
He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; "peace !"—
When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare :
" Where's Harry Blount ? Fitz-Eustace where 1
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare 1
Redeem my pennon— charge again !
Cry—' Marmion to the rescue !'—vain !
Last of my race, on battle plain
That shout shall ne'er be heard again !
Yet my last thought is England's :—fly ;
To Dacre bear my signet ring ;
Tell him my squadrons up to bring.
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie :
Tunstall lies dead upon the field ;
His life-blood stains the spotless shield :
Edmund is down—my life is reft ;
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire—
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland's central host,
Or victory and England's lost.
Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets ! fly !
Leave Marmion here alone—to die."
They parted, and alone he lay ;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured—" Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst ?"
O, woman ! in our hours of ease,

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made ;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou !
Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the baron's casque, the maid
To the nigh streamlet ran :
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.
She stooped her by the runnel's side,
But in abhorrence backward drew ;
For, oozing from the mountain wide,
Where raged the war, a dark red tide
Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn !—behold her mark
A little fountain-cell,
Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin felL
Above, some half-worn letters say,
©rinft . foearg ' pilgrim • brink . atrtj ' prag
Sox ' tftt . Junto ' soul . of ' Spoil . ffireg '
SUfto ' built . tijtg ' cross ' ana ' hull .
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied
A monk supporting Marmion's head ;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrieve the dying, bless the dead.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave,

And as she stooped his brow to lave—
" Is it the hand of Clare," he said,
" Or injured Constance, bathes my head 1"
Then as remembrance rose—
" Speak not to me of shrift or prayer !
I must redress her woes.
Short space, few words, are mine to spare ;
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare !"
"Alas I" she said, "the while—
O think of your immortal weal !
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She—died at Holy Isle!"
Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound ;
Though in the action burst the tide,
In torrents from his wounded side.
,;Then it was truth !"— he said—"I knew
That the dark presage must be true.
I would the fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day !
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.
It may not be !—this dizzy trance—
Curse on yon base marauder's lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand !
A sinful heart makes feeble hand."
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling monk.
With fruitless labour Clara bound,

And strove to staunch the gushing wound :
The monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the church's prayers ;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,
" In the lost battle, borne down by theflying
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"
So the notes rung ;
" Avoid thee, fiend !—with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner's sand !
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ;
O think on faith and bliss !
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this."
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale,
And—Stanley ! was the cry ;
A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye :
With dying hand above his head
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!
Charge, Chester, charge! on Stanley, on !"
Were the last words of Marmion.
THOSE EVENING BELLS.—Moore.
Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime !
Those joyous hours have passed away,
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone ;
That tuneful peal will still ring on ;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
INTRODUCTION TO "ENDYMION."—Keats.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever :
Its loveliness increases ; it will never
Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er darkened ways
Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in ; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms :
nd such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead ;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
THE SOWER'S SONG.—Carlyle,

Now hands to seed-sheet, boys,
We step and we cast ; old Time's on wing ;
And would ye partake of Harvest's joys,
The corn must be sown in Spring.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed ;
And stand so yellow some morn,
For beast and man must be fed.
Old Earth is a pleasure to see
In sunshiny cloak of red and green ;
The furrow lies fresh ; this Year will be
As Years that are past have been.
Old Mother, receive this corn,
The son of Six Thousand golden sires ;
All these on thy kindly breast were born ;
One more thy poor child requires.
Now steady and sure again,
And measure of stroke and step we keep ;
Thus up and down we cast our grain :
Sow well and you gladly reap.
FROM "THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT

MARINER."—Coleridge.
O wedding-guest ! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea :
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk,
With a goodly company !
To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay !
Farewell, farewell ; but this I tell
To thee thou wedding-guest :
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small ;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
The mariner whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone : and now the wedding guest
Turned from the bridegroom's door.
He went like one that had been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn :
A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.
AN ODE.—Sir IV. Jones.
What constitutes a state 1
Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound,
Thick wall or moated gate ;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ;
Not starred and spangled courts,
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No ; men, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ;
Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain :
These constitute a state,
And sovereign law, that state's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate
Sits empress crowning good, repressing ill ;
Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend Dissension like a vapour sinks,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this heaven-loved isle,
Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore !
No more shall Freedom smile ?
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more 1
Since all must life resign,
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,
'Tis folly to decline,
And steal inglorious to the silent grave.
THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.—Hislop.
In a dream of the night I was wafted away,
To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay ;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying.
'Twas morning ; and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast ;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew,
Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and mountain
flowers blue.
And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud,
And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.
And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and
gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness ;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But, oh ! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow ;
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to
morrow.
'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were
lying,
Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath fowl was
crying,
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were
hovering,
And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty
covering.
Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,
But the vengeance that darkened their brow was un-
breathed ;
With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.
The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing ;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were
shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded,
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were
gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were
falling.
When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was
ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended ;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.
On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are
riding ;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits ! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory !
K
o The Poetical Reader.
FABLE.—Emerson.
The Mountain and the Squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "Little Prig :"
Bun replied,
" You are doubtless very big,
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year,
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry :
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel-track ;
Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put ;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."
FROM " LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME."—

Macaulay.
Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate :
" To every man upon this earth,
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods,
And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens
Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus
That wrought the deed of shame 1
" Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may ;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon straight path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me 1"
Then out spake Spurius Lartius ;
A Ramnian proud was he :
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius ;
Of Titian blood was he :
" I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."
" Horatius," quoth the Consul,
" As thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life,
In the brave days of old.
Then none was for a party ;
Then all were for the state ;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great :
Then lands were fairly portioned ;
Then spoils were fairly sold :
The Romans were like brothers
Now Roman is to Roman
More hateful than a foe,
And the Tribunes beard the high,
And the Fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,
In battle we wax cold :
Wherefore men fight not as they fought
TO A SKYLARK..—SM/ey.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still, and higher,
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire ;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, singest.
In the golden lightening
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied 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 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 over
flowed.
What thou art we know not ;
What is most like thee ?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
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 aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the
view.
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy winged
thieves.
• 134 The Poetical Reader.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine ;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt—
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains 1
What shapes of sky or plain ?
What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain 1
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance
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 1
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not :
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught :
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
The Poetical Reader. loo
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear j
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.
Better than all measures
Of delight and sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
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.
THE MINSTREL-BOY.—Meore.
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him ;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
" Land of song !" said the warrior bard,
" Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee ! "
The Minstrel fell !—but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under ;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder ;
And said, " No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery !
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery ! "
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.—Arnold.
Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below.
Now my brothers call from the bay ;
Now the great winds shorewards blow ;
Now the salt tides seawards flow.;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away.
This way, this way.
Call her once before you go,
Call once yet.
In a voice that she will know :
" Margaret ! Margaret ! "
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear :
Children's voices, wild with pain.
Surely she will come again.
Call her once and come away.
This way, this way.
" Mother dear, we cannot stay."
The wild white horses foam and fret.
Margaret ! Margaret !
Come, dear children, come away down,
Call no more.
One last look at the white-walled town,
And the little gray church on .the windy shore,
Then come down,
She will not come though you call all day
Come away, come away.
Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay 1
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell 1
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep ;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam ;
Where the salt weed sways in the stream ;
Where the sea beasts ranged all round
Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground ;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine ;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye ?
When did music come this way i
Children dear, was it yesterday ]
Children dear, was it yesterday

(Call yet once) that she went away 1
Once she sate with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of the far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea,
She said ; " I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me !
And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee."
I said ; " Go up, dear heart, through the waves.
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves."
She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday 1
Children dear, were we long alone ?

" The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.
Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say.
Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town.
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
To the little gray church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones, worn with
rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded
panes.
She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear :
" Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here.
Dear heart," I said, " we are long alone.
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."
But, ah, she gave me never a look,
For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.
" Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door."
Come away, children, call no more.
Come away, come down, call no more.
Down, down, down,

Down to the depths of the sea.
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark, what she sings ; " O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy.
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well.
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessed light of the sun."
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the shuttle falls from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand ;
And over the sand at the sea ;
And her eyes are set in a stare ;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh.
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away children.
Come children, come down.
The hoarse wind blows colder ;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door ;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.
Singing, " Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she.
And alone dwell for ever
The kings of the sea."
But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow ;
When clear falls the moonlight ;
When spring-tides are low :
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom ;
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom :
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie ;
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town ;
At the church on the hill-side—.
And then come back down.
T40 The Poetical Reader.
Singing, " There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she.
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea."
THE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR KING.-

Swain.
There are noble heads bowed down and pale,

Deep sounds of woe arise,
And tears flow fast around the couch
Where a wounded warrior lies ;
The hue of death is gathering dark
Upon his lofty brow,
And the arm of might and valour falls,
Weak as an infant's now.
I saw him 'mid the battling hosts,

Like a bright and leading star,
Where banner, helm, and falchion gleamed,
And flew the bolts of war.
When, in his plenitude of power,
He trod the Holy Land,
I saw the routed Saracens
Flee from his blood-dark brand.
I saw him in the banquet hour

Forsake the festive throng,
To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt,
And give his soul to song ;
For dearly as he loved renown,
He loved that spell-wrought strain
Which bade the brave of perished days
Light conquest's torch again.
Then seemed the bard to cope with Time,
And triumph o'er his doom—
Another world in freshness burst
Oblivion's mighty tomb !
Again the hardy Britons rushed
Like lions to the fight,
While horse and foot—helm, shield, and lance,
Swept by his visioned sight !
But battle shout and waving plume,
The drum's heart-stirring beat,
The glittering pomp of prosperous war,
The rush of million feet,
The magic of the minstrel's song,
Which told of victories o'er,.
Are sights and sounds the dying king
Shall see—shall hear no more !
It was the hour of deep midnight,
In the dim and quiet sky,
When, with sable cloak and 'broidered pall,
A funeral train swept by ;
Dull and sad fell the torches' glare
On many a stately crest—
They bore the noble warrior king
To his last dark home of rest.
LUCY.— Wordsworth.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye !
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be ;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me !
MARK ANTONY'S ORATION OVER

CAESAR'S BODY.—Shakspeare.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ;

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them ;
The good is oft interred with their bones :
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious :
If it were so, it was a grievous fault ;
And grievously hath Caesar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest
(For Brutus is an honourable man ;
So are they all, all honourable men),
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me :
But Brutus says, he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill :
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious 1
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept :
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see, that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition 1
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause ;
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him 1
0 judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason !—-Bear with me ;
My heart is in the coffin there with Cssar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
But yesterday, the word of Caesar might

Have stood against the world : now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
Oh masters ! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men :
I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar ;
I found it in his closet ; 'tis his will :
Let but the commons hear this testament
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read),
And they would go and kiss dear Caesar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue.
Have patience, gentle friends ; I must not read it ;

It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ;
And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ;
For if you should, O, what would come of it !
Will you be patient 1 Will you stay a while ?
I have o'ershot myself, to tell you of it.
I fear, I wrong the honourable men,
Whose daggers have stabbed Caesar : I do fear it.
You will compel mej then, to read the will 1

Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend ? And will you give me leave ?
(He comes down from the pulpit!)
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on ;
Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii :—
Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through :
See what a rent the envious Casca made :.
Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ;
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel :
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cassar loved him !
This was the most unkindest cut of all :
For, when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart ;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face;
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Caesar's vesture wounded 1 Look you here,
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up

To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable ;
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it ; they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts :
I am no orator, as Brutus is ;
But as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend ; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know ;
Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb
mouths,
And bid them speak for me : but, were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
THE BELLS.—E. A. Poe.
Hear the sledges with the bells—

Silver bells !
What a world of merriment their melody foretells !
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night !
While the stars that over-sprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight ;
L
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,

Golden bells !
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells !
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight !
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon !
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !
How it swells !
How it dwells
On the Future ! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells !
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells !
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright !
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a resolute endeavour
Now—now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair !
How they clang, and clash, and roar !
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air !
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows ;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells !
Hear the tolling of the bells—

Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver .with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone !
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone ;
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls !
And their king it is that tolls ;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells I
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells !
And he dances and he yells ;
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells :
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells ;
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, beljs—
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.—Campbell.

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track ;
'Twas Autumn—and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ;
My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
"Stay, stay with us ! rest ! thou art weary and worn !"
And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay ;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
ODE TO THE CUCKOO.—Logan.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !
Thou messenger of Spring !
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear ;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year 1
Delightful visitant ! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale
An annual guest to other lands,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year.
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee !
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.
ENGLAND.—Ben Jonson.
May still this island be called fortunate,
And rugged treason tremble at the sound
When fame shall speak it with an emphasis ;
Let foreign polity be dull as lead,
And pale invasion come with half a heart,
When he but looks upon her blessed soil ;
The throat of war be stopped within her land,
And turtle-footed peace dance fairy rings
About her court, where never may there come
Suspect or danger, but all trust and safety.
FEMALE LOVELINESS.— Wordsworth.

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight ;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament ;
Her eyes are stars of twilight fair ;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn ;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay ;
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food ;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death ;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.
THE OFFICE OF A KING.—MOtan.

A CROWN,
Golden in show, is but a wreath of thorns ;
Brings dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights
To him who wears the regal diadem,
When on his shoulders each man's burden lies.
For therein stands the office of a king,
His honour, virtue, merit, and chief praise,
That for the public all this weight he bears.
Yet he who reigns within himself, and rules
Passions, desires, and fears, is more a king ;
Which every wise and virtuous man attains ;
And who attains not, ill aspires to rule
Cities of men, or headstrong multitudes,
Subject himself to anarchy within,
Or lawless passions in him, which he saves.
But to guide nations in the way of truth
By saving doctrine, and from error lead
To know, and, knowing, worship God aright,
Is yet more kingly. This attracts the soul,
Governs the inner man, the nobler part ;
That other o'er the body only reigns,
And oft by force ; which, to a generous mind,
So reigning can be no sincere delight.
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are full of well-selected ' Examples,1 nicely graduated : are well arranged,
and will furnish an exhaustless supply of miscellaneous questions upon
business transactions."— Yorkshire Gazette.
"These 'Examples* extend from numeration to mensuration, and
furnish a course of instruction which leaves nothing further to be desired
in a useful commercial education. It is surprising that in so many
respectable seminaries books are still used which contain the answers
as well as the questions in arithmetic, and the separate publication of the
' Keys,' as above, is the only security possessed by the teacher for the due
performance of the work by his pupils. The ' Examples' are well selected,
and, bearing in mind the expense involved in printing numerals, these
little books are remarkably cheap. We can confidently recommend them
to our scholastic frionds."—Liverpool Courier.
"In these text books for home and school use, Mr. Davis has wisely
omitted the long explanations of rules and principles with which nearly
all school arithmetics are crowded, and which boys never read, and has
tilled these works with * Examples ' which, for their copiousness and
practical character are—so far as our experience goes—quite unparalleled.
For the use of those teachers who, in addition to their own black-board
demonstrations, set their pupils memoriter lessons in the rules and defini
tions of arithmetic, the * Memory Work ' will be found to be a complete
compendium of the tables, rules, and definitions, not only of arithmetic,
but also of the essentials of mensuration."—St. Helens' Weekly News.
" We do not know where so great a quantity of examples can ha
obtained at so small a cost, and the character of the exercises Is also un
exceptionable."—Educational Guardian.
" These books are the first and only attempt to bring up arithmetical
manuals to the improved practice of teaching now becoming general. . .
They are by a practical teacher, who, to a thorough knowledge of sohool-
work, adds the broader views of an inspector, and the preciser knowledge
of a man of letters. . . The examples, at the cost of a few pence,
contain the largest body of arithmetical questions of any book in the
language, at whatever price, and of whatever size.'* — Warrington
Standard.
"The 'Examples' (Part I.) are good and numerous,"—Papas for the
Schoolmaster.
yft-r»"
OPINIONS OP THE PRESS (continued).

"If aspirants to Government situations master the 'Examples' given
by the author they need not be afraid of ' posers.* The works are well
got up, and are miracles of cheapness."— Wrexham and Denbigh Weekly
Advertiser.
" This is a new educational work, by this author, who, from his
experience as a school inspector, precisely understands what is required.
The book will Toe found especially valuable to teachers."—Nottingham
Review.
" It (Fart IL) must be a useful book."—Athenceum.
" Mr. Davis's Manual of 'Arithmetical Examples' (Part II.) Is well com
piled, and cannot but be of great service to instructors. It contains
upwards of 3,000 questions in the higher rules of arithmetic, and the
more useful rules of mensuration."—Critic.
"This (Part IL) is an excellent school book. It is cheap and compre
hensive. We think that most teachers will agree with us, that the one
defect of the works that have for ever excluded Trotter and Walkingham
from all good schools is a paucity of examples. In arithmetic it la
eminently true that practice makes perfect. Mr. Davis here provides a
cheap and easy means of supplying this defect; as the title sets forth, his
is a book of examples. Those teachers who largely use the black board
will find this a great assistance. Besides the great number of the examples
—141,000 in all—Is to be noticed the excellent proportion assigned to the
various rules. Of that most useful rule which amongst hoys is said to
' drive one mad,' nearly 600 examples are furnished. The convenience of
teachers is consulted likewise by the division of the work into two parts,
of which the first includes the rules from numeration to proportion."—
Warrington Guardian.
" Even the most fastidious fault-finder would have some difficulty in
raising an ordinary objection to this unpretending but eminently useful
manual, * The Memory Work of Arithmetic.'"—Pupil Teacher.
" Mr. Davis, who is one of the British and Foreign School Society's
Inspectors, gives in these volumes, four in number, an almost endless
variety of examples for working out those rules and principles. Part L.
contains 138,000 new questions from numeration to compound proportion,
and Part II. 3,000 questions in the higher rules of arithmetic—that Is, from
vulgar fractions to duodecimals and mensuration. The questions in com
mercial arithmetic are framed with great judgment and ingenuity. The
work is brought out in an inexpensive form, and will be a very acceptable
manual to schoolmasters and private teachers."—Staffordshire Advertiser.
" The questions are of a very useful kind, such, in fact, as cannot fail
to give to the learner a most extensive acquaintance with arithmetic.
We would recommend Mr. Davis's works to the perusal of schoolmasters,
and to all who have anything to do with the teaching of the young."—
}V7d'e?iaven News.
" We have not seen in any arithmetic such a vast number of Examples
as are crowded Into this little work. It Is sure to meet, as it deserves, a
large sale."— Wakefield Journal.
"Its chief merit, in our opinion, is the novelty and practical nature of
the questions, and the tact with which they rise gradually in difficulty of
operation."—Bradford Observer.
The Author is in possession of numerous letters from her Majesty's

Inspectors of Schools, and from gentlemen conducting many leading
educational institutions, both public and private, and their testimony
in favour of the books is unanimous, unqualified, and emphatic.
-Jm
J
Upwards of Twenty Thousand sold within Six
months of completion.
EDUCATIONAL WORKS OF
WILLIAM DAVIS, B.A.,

FOE
HOl^CE A.2STJD SCHOOL TTSE.

——♦
I.
Arithmetical Examples for Home and School Use,
Part L, containing 138,209 New Questions, from Simple Addi
tion to Compound Proportion. 20th thousand, thoroughly
revised and corrected. Full bound, cloth, 8d.
II.
A Key to the Aiithmetical Examples, Fart I.,
containing Answers to the Questions. 4th thousand, thoroughly
revised and corrected. Full bound, cloth, Is.
III.
Arithmetical Examples for Home and School Use,
Part II., containing 3,143 Questions in the Higher Rules of
Arithmetic, and the more Useful Rules of Mensuration. 10th
thousand. Price 8d., full bound, cloth.
IV.
A Hey to the Arithmetical Examples, Fart II.,
containing the Answers to all the Questions. 5th thousand,
revised and corrected. Price Is., full bound, cloth.
V.
The Memory Work of Arithmetic : A Complete
Compendium of Arithmetical Tables, Definitions, and Rules.
6th thousand, revised and corrected. Price 4d., bound in cloth.
VL
The Arithmetical Examples, Farts I. and II., bound
together. Strong cloth, price Is. 4d.
VII.
The Keys to Farts I and II., bound together.
Strong cloth, price 2s.
LONDON: t
LONGMAN & CO., and by order of all Booksellers.
londoh: tailor and greening, rRINTKRS, okatstoke-flack, fkttkr :akk.
J

The Poetical Reader For School and Home

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SCHOOL AND HOME USE.

JOHN CHARLES CURTIS, B.A.,

Price One Shilling.

Though the paramount value of poetry in relation

It has not been deemed advisable to attempt any

The Editor begs to present his warmest thanks

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.—Pope.

Father of all ! in every age,

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,

If I am right, thy grace impart,

Save me alike from foolish pride,

Teach me to feel another's woe,

Mean though I am, not wholly so,

This day be bread and peace my lot :

To thee, whose temple is all space ;

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR—.£. Cook.

I love it, I love it ; and who shall dare

WE ARE SEVEN.— Wordsworth.

I met a little cottage girl :

She had a rustic, woodland air,

" Sisters and brothers, little maid,

" And where are they 1 I pray you tell."

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

In the world's broad field of battle,

Lives of great men all remind us

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Let us, then, be up and doing,

CRANMER'S PREDICTION OF THE FUTURE

Let me speak, sir,

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.—Lamb.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

I loved a love once, fairest among women ;

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ;

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ;

Friend of my bosom ! thou more than a brother !

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

Can all, that optics teach, unfold

When Science from Creation's face

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,

When o'er the green undeluged earth

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye

The earth to thee her incense yields,

How glorious is thy girdle cast

As fresh in yon horizon dark,

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

THE SPANISH ARMADA.—Macaulay,

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.—Moore,

RING OUT THE OLD, RING IN THE

EDWIN AND ANGELINA.—Goldsmith.

" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

POLONIUS'S ADVICE TO LAERTES.—

Give thy thoughts no tongue,

THE SUNSHINE.—Mary Howitt.

I love the sunshine everywhere—

I love it, when it streameth in

I love it, where the children lie

I love it, on the breezy sea,