"You come back from sea, And not know my John? I might as well have ask'd some landsman There's not an ass in all the parish "How's my boy - my boy? Brass buttons or no, sailor, Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton"" 66 Speak low, woman, speak low!" "And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor?" "That good ship went down." "How's my boy - my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor? I was never aboard her. Be she afloat or be she aground, What care I for the men, sailor? She sings no song of love's despair, Has ever touched or bud or leaf Of her unblighted spring. She sings because she needs must sing; That night in Britain howsoe'er She sings, with trembling hand on trembling lute-strings laid: The murmur of the mourning ghost The sorrows of thy line!" Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And thro' the silver meads; Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, She sang her song, she kept her kine, Rode thro' the Monday morn; His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine ; Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold, The burnie that goes babbling by Says nought that can be told. Your sister Winifred! Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood - "Tis not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, TOMMY'S DEAD You may give over plough, boys, Send the colt to fair, boys, Stop the mill to-morn, boys, You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, And the beasts must be fed : You may turn Peg away, boys, You may pay off old Ned, We've had a dull day, boys, And Tommy 's dead. Move my chair on the floor, boys, She's standing there in the door, boys, Take her away from me, boys, Move me round in my place, boys, Take her away from me, boys, And the lily as pale as she, boys, There's something not right, boys, The ground is cold to my tread, Wherever I turn my head There's a mildew and a mould, The sun's going out overhead, And Tommy's dead. What am I staying for, boys? She was always sweet, boys, Upon his curly head, She knew she'd never see 't, boys, And she stole off to bed; I've been sitting up alone, boys, For he'd come home, he said, But it's time I was gone, boys, For Tommy 's dead. Put the shutters up, boys, For my eyes are heavy as lead; I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I shall never more be stout, boys, The stairs are too steep, boys, I'm not us'd to kiss, boys, You may shake my hand instead. You may lay me where she is, boys, AMERICA NOR force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye Heroic utterance — parted, yet a whole, Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream. HOME IN WAR-TIME SHE turn'd the fair page with her fairer hand More fair and frail than it was wont to be And so her patient love did understand He loves thee." Then she touches a sweet string Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill Smiles all her soul-for him who cannot hear The raven croaking at his carrion ear. Doctor. MILTON FROM "BALDER " Ah! thou, too, Sad Alighieri, like a waning moon Setting in storm behind a grove of bays! Balder. Yes, the great Florentine, who wove his web And thrust it into hell, and drew it forth Immortal, having burn'd all that could burn, And leaving only what shall still be found Untouch'd, nor with the smell of fire upon it, Under the final ashes of this world. Doctor. Shakespeare and Milton ! Balder. Switzerland and home. I ne'er see Milton, but I see the Alps, As once, sole standing on a peak supreme, To the extremest verge summit and gulf I saw, height after depth, Alp beyond Alp, wave, Catches a joy of going, and a will Held into light eternal, and again Doctor. And my Shakespeare! Call Milton your Alps, and which is he among The tops of Andes? Keep your Paradise, And Eves, and Adams, but give me the Earth That Shakespeare drew, and make it grave and gay With Shakespeare's men and women; let me laugh with them, and you — a wager, aye, A wager by my faith - either his muse Was the recording angel, or that hand Cherubic, which fills up the Book of Life, Caught what the last relaxing gripe let fall By a death-bed at Stratford, and henceforth Holds Shakespeare's pen. Now strain your sinews, poet, And top your Pelion,- Milton Switzerland, And English Shakespeare Balder. This dear English land! This happy England, loud with brooks and birds, Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees, And bloom'd from hill to dell; but whose best flowers Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest floods |