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Soon week came to end, and, from Hole's
door set wide, Out he march’d, and there waited the
lassie : “Yon gallows, or Muckle-mouth Meg for
a bride! Consider! Sky's blue and turf 's grassy: “ Life's sweet; shall I say ye wed Muckle
mouth Meg ?” “Not I,” quoth the stout heart : “ too
eerie The mouth that can swallow a bubblyjock's Shall I let it munch mine? Never,
Oh to love so, be so lov'd, yet so mis
taken ! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the
unmanly ? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel
– Being — who? One who never turn'd his back but march'd
breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dream'd, though right were worsted,
wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight
Sleep to wake. No, at noonday in the bustle of man's
work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer ! Bid him forward, breast and back as either
should be, “ Strive and thrive!” cry “Speed, — fight
on, fare ever
There as here!”
HOW'S MY BOY?
“My boy John -
* Ho, Sailor of the sea ! How's my boy – my boy ?” “What 's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sail'd he ?”
“ You come back from sea,
She sings no song of love's despair,
That keeps the shadowy kine “Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line !"
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says nought that can be told.
Yet, stranger ! here, from year
year, She keeps her shadowy kine ; Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line ! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear ? The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I bear !
Your sister Winifred !
She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine ; Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line !
TOMMY'S DEAD You may give over plough, boys, You may take the gear to the stead, All the sweat o' your brow, boys, Will never get beer and bread. The seed's waste, I know, boys, There's not a blade will grow, boys, 'Tis cropp'd out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.
There's something not right, boys,
Send the colt to fair, boys,
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
What am I staying for, boys ?
Put the shutters up, boys,
hand instead. All things go amiss, boys, You may lay me where she is, boys, And I'll rest my old head : 'Tis a poor world, this, boys, And Tommy's dead.
AMERICA Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! 0 ye Who north or south, on east or western land, Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth, Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God For God ; ( ye who in eternal youth Speak with a living and creative flood This universal English, and do stand Its breathing book ; live worthy of that
grand Heroic utterance – parted, yet a whole, Far yet unsever'd, - children brave and free Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's
soul, Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as
HOME IN WAR-TIME
“How many ?” said our good Captain. “ Twenty sail and more." We were homeward bound, Scudding in a gale with our jib towards
the Nore. Right athwart our tack,
The foe came thick and black, Like Hell-birds and foul weather - you
might count them by the score.
SAE turn’d the fair page with her fairer
hand More fair and frail than it was wont to be — O’er each remember'd thing he lov'd to see She linger'd, and as with a fairy's wand Enchanted it to order. Oft she fann'd New motes into the sun ; and as a bee Sings thro' a brake of bells, so murmur'd
she, And so her patient love did understand The reliquary room. Upon the sill She fed his favorite bird. • Ah, Robin,
sing! 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.
The Betsy Jane did slack To see the game in view. They knew the Union-Jack, And the tyrant's flag we knew ! Our Captain shouted “Clear the decks ! ”
and the Bo'sun's whistle blew.
Then our gallant Captain,
And pointed with his stump to the mid- I saw, height after depth, Alp beyond Alp, dle of the foe.
O'er which the rising and the sinking soul “ Hurrah, lads, in we go !”
Sails into distance, heaving as a ship (You should hear the British cheer, O'er a great sea that sets to strands unseen. Fore and aft.)
And as the mounting and descending bark,
Borne on exulting by the under deep, “ There are twenty sail,” sang he, Gains of the wild wave something not the “ But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on
wave, the sea !”
Catches a joy of going, and a will (You should hear the British cheer, Resistless, and upon the last lee foam Fore and aft.)
Leaps into air beyond it, so the soul
Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-tossid, “See yon ugly craft
Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged With the pennon at her main !
To darkness, and still wet with drops of Hurrah, my merry boys,
death There goes the Betsy Jane !"
Held into light eternal, and again (You should hear the British cheer, Cast down, to be again uplift in vast Fore and aft.)
And infinite succession, cannot stay
The mad momentum, but in frenzied sight The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Of horizontal clouds and mists and skies Russian bugles sound ;
And the untried Inane, springs on the surge And the little Betsy Jane she leaps upon Of things, and passing matter by a force the sea.
Material, thro’ vacuity careers, “ Port and starboard!” cried our Captain; Rising and falling: * Pay it in, my hearts !” sang he.
Doctor. And my Shakespeare! Call
Milton your Alps, and which is he among “We're old England's sons,
The tops of Andes ? Keep your Paradise, And we'll fight for her to-day !”
And Eves, and Adams, but give me the (You should hear the British cheer.
Earth Fore and aft.)
That Shakespeare drew, and make it grave “Fire away!”
With Shakespeare's men and women; let And her guns
me laugh Thunder round.
with them, and you a wager,
aye, DANTE, SHAKESPEARE,
A wager by my faith – either his muse
Was the recording angel, or that hand MILTON
Cherubic, which fills up the Book of Life, FROM “BALDER"
Caught what the last relaxing gripe let
Ah! thou, too, By a death-bed at Stratford, and henceSad Alighieri, like a waning moon
forth Setting in storm behind a grove of bays ! Holds Shakespeare's pen. Now strain your Balder. Yes, the great Florentine, who sinews, poet, wove his web
And top your Pelion, — Milton Switzerland, And thrust it into hell, and drew it forth And English Shakespeare Immortal, having burn'd all that could burn, Balder.
This dear English land ! And leaving only what shall still be found This happy England, loud with brooks and Untouch'd, nor with the smell of fire upon it, birds, Under the final ashes of this world.
Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees, Doctor. Shakespeare and Milton ! And bloom'd from hill to dell; but whose Balder. Switzerland and home.
best flowers I ne'er see Milton, but I see the Alps, Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair As once, sole standing on a peak supreme, Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest To the extremest verge summit and gulf
In she runs,