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The burnie that goes babbling by

Says nought that can be told.
Yet, stranger ! here, from year to year,

She keeps her shadowy kine ;
Ob, 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 hear !

Your sister Winifred !
Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,
Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed !
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head ;
Out of the big oak-tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,
And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

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,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys —
The Lord be hallowed !
Outside and in
The ground is cold to my tread,
The bills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivelld and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.
There's nothing but cinders and sand,
The rat and the mouse have fed,
And the summer 's empty and cold ;
Over valley and wold
Wherever I turn my head
There's a mildew and a mould,
The sun 's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,
And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed ;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred ;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There 'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red ;
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land 's not what it was, 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,
Let me turn my head :
She's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred !
Take her away from me, boys,

What am I staying for, boys ?
You 're all born and bred,
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she's gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly bead,
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.

AMERICA

Put the shutters up, boys, Bring out the beer and bread, Make haste and sup, boys, For my eyes are heavy as lead ; There's something wrong i’ the cup, boys, There's something ill wi' the bread, I don't care to sup, boys, And Tommy's dead. I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I've such a sleepy head, I shall never more be stout, boys, You may carry me to bed. What are you about, boys ? The prayers are all said, The fire's rak'd out, boys, And Tommy's dead. The stairs are too steep, boys, You may carry me to the head, The night's dark and deep, boys, Your mother's long in bed, 'Tis time to go to sleep, boys, And Tommy's dead. I'm not us’d to kiss, boys, You

my

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.

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O 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 ; O 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

Spenser's dream.

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EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF

EDWARD FORBES NATURE, a jealous mistress, laid him low, He wood and won her ; and, by love made

bold, She show'd him more than mortal man

should know, Then slew him lest her secret should be told.

may shake

SEA BALLAD

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HOME IN WAR-TIME SHE 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.

FROM “BALDER"

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.
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,
With his hand he seiz'd the wheel,

" See

the sea.

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-toss'd, 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 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

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

me laugh
Thunder round.

Or
weep

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

fall
Doctor.
Ah! thou, too,

By a death-bed at Stratford, and hence-
Sad 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

floods

and gay

In she runs,
And her guns

s!

The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart; Some legend low and long,
Whose forests stronger than her native oaks Slow as the summer song
Are living men ; and whose unfathom'd Of the dull Deep.

lakes
Forever calm the unforgotten dead

Some legend long and low, In quiet graveyards willow'd seemly round, Whose equal ebb and flow O’er which To-day bends sad, and sees his

To and fro creep
face.

On the dim marge of gray
Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old 'Tween the soul's night and day,
Thro' unremember'd years, around whose Washing “awake” away
base

Into “asleep.”
The ever-surging peoples roll and roar
Perpetual, as around her cliffs the seas Some legend low and long,
That only wash them whiter; and whose Never so weak or strong
mountains,

As to let go
Souls that from this mere footing of the While it can hold this heart
earth

Withouten sigh or smart,
Lift their great virtues thro' all clouds of Or as to hold this heart
Fate

When it sighs “No."
Up to the very heavens, and make them rise
To keep the gods above us !

Some long low swaying song,

As the sway'd shadow long
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. Sways to and fro
BROWNING

Where, thro' the crowing cocks,

And by the swinging clocks,
WHICH of the Angels sang so well in Some weary mother rocks
Heaven

Some weary woe.
That the approving Archon of the quire
Cried, “Come up hither!” and he, going Sing up and down to me
higher,

Like a dream-boat at sea,
Carried a note out of the choral seven ; So, and still so,
Whereat that cherub to whom choice is Float through the “then” and “when,"
given

Rising from when to then, Among the singers that on earth aspire Sinking from then to when Beckon'd thee from us, and thou, and thy

While the waves go. lyre Sudden ascended out of sight? Yet even Low and high, high and low, In Heaven thou weepest ! Well, true wife, Now and then, then and now, to weep!

Now, now ; Thy voice doth so betray that sweet offence And when the now is then, and when the That no new call should more exalt thee

then is now, hence

And when the low is high, and when the But for thy harp. Ah, lend it, and such grace high is low, Shall still advance thy neighbor that thou | Low, low; keep

Let me float, let the boat Thy seat, and at thy side a vacant place !

Let me glide, let me slide FRAGMENT OF A SLEEP-SONG

Slow, slow ;

Gliding boat, sliding boat,
SISTER Simplicitie,

Slow, slow;
Sing, sing a song to me,

Glide away, slide away
Sing me to sleep.

So, so.

Go, go ;

George Meredith

ONE TWILIGHT HOUR

HIDING THE SKELETON

FROM “MODERN LOVEWhereby I know that I Love's temple leave,

And that the purple doors have clos'd behind. “ ALL OTHER Joys”

Poor soul ! if in those early days unkind

Thy power to sting had been but power to All other joys of life be strove to warm,

grieve, And magnify, and catch them to his lip; We now might with an equal spirit meet, But they had suffer'd shipwreck with the And not be match'd like innocence and vice. ship,

She for the Temple's worship has paid price, And gaz'd upon him sallow from the storm. And takes the coin of Pity as a cheat. Or if Delusion came, 't was but to show She sees thro' simulation to the bone : The coming minute mock the one that went. What's best in her impels her to the worst. Cold as a mountain in its star-pitch'd tent Never, she cries, shall Pity soothe Love's Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe ;

thirst, Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison- | Or foul hypocrisy for truth atone !

bars,
Is always watching with a wondering hate.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate,
Look we for any kinship with the stars. We saw the swallows gathering in the sky,
Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And in the osier-isle we heard their noise.
And the great price we pay for it full worth ! We had not to look back on summer joys,
We have it only when we are half earth : Or forward to a summer of bright dye ;
Little avails that coinage to the old ! But in the largeness of the evening earth

Our spirits grew as we went side by side.
The hour became her husband, and my bride.

Love that had robb'd us so, thus bless'd our At dinner she is hostess, I am host.

dearth!
Went the feast ever cheerfuller ? She The pilgrims of the year

wax'd
very

loud keeps

In multitudinous chatterings, as the flood The topic over intellectual deeps

Full brown came from the west, and like In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.

pale blood With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the Expanded to the upper crimson cloud.

Love, that had robb’d us of immortal things, It is in truth a most contagious game ;

This little moment mercifully gave, HIDING THE SKELETON shall be its name. And still I see across the twilight wave Such play as this the devils might appall ! The swan sail with her young beneath her But here's the greater wonder; in that wings.

we, Enamor’d of our acting and our wits, Admire each other like true hypocrites.

JUGGLING JERRY Warm-lighted glances, Love's Ephemeræ, Pitch here the tent, while the old horse Shoot gayly o'er the dishes and the wine.

grazes : We waken envy of our happy lot.

By the old hedge-side we 'll halt a stage. Fast, sweet, and golden, shows our mar

It's nigh my last above the daisies : riage-knot.

My next leaf 'll be man’s blank page. Dear guests, you now have seen Love's Yes, my old girl ! and it's no use crying : corpse-light shine!

Juggler, constable, king, must bow.
One that outjuggles all 's been spying

Long to have me, and he has me now. They say that Pity in Love's service dwells,

We've travellid times to this old common : A porter at the rosy temple’s gate.

Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. I miss'd him going : but it is my fate We've had a stirring life, old woman ! To come upon him now beside his wells ; You, and I, and the old gray horse.

ball :

THE COIN OF PITY

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