WILLIAM YOUNG. THE HORSEMAN. WHO is it rides with whip and spurOr madman, or king's messenger? The night is near, the lights begin To glimmer from the roadside inn, And o'er the moorland, waste and wide, The mists behind the horseman ride. 66 Ho, there within a stirrup-cup! No time have I to sleep or sup. "An honest cup!-and mingle well The juices that have still the spell "To banish doubt and care, and slay The ghosts that prowl the king's highway." "And whither dost thou ride, my friend?" "My friend, to find the roadway's end." His eyeballs shone: he caught and quaffed, With scornful lips, the burning draught. "Yea, friend, I ride to prove my life; If there be guerdon worth the strife "If after loss, and after gain, And after bliss, and after pain, INDEX TO FIRST LINES A bee flew in at my window, Abide not in the land of dreams, Abide with me! fast falls the eventide, A bird sang sweet and strong, A blue-eyed child that sits amid the noon, A brace of sinners, for no good,. A certain artist - I've forgot his name- A clergyman who longed to trace, A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A face that should content me wondrous well, A fellow in a market town, A fiery soul, which, working out its way, After this feud of yours and mine, A good man there was of religion,. A great mind is an altar on a hill, A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A harmless fellow, wasting useless days, Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings, Ah, happy day, refuse to go! Ah me! forevermore, Ah! my heart is weary waiting: Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see A holy stillness, beautiful and deep, Ah, real thing of bloom and breath, Ah then, how sweetly closed those crowded days A hundred noble wishes till my heart, Ah, what avails the sceptred race? Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven?. Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb? A keen insistent hint of dawn, Alas, long suffering and most patient God, Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die! Alas! the setting sun, Alas! they had been friends in youth, A life on the ocean wave, A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain,. A lily rooted in a sacred soil,. A little child, beneath a tree, A little hand, a fair soft hand, All are not taken! they are left behind, All beautiful things bring sadness, All change; no death, All conquest-flushed, from prostrate Python, came, All day I heard a humming in my ears, All joy was bereft me the day that you left me, All moveless stand the ancient cedar trees, All promise is poor dilatory man, "All quiet along the Potomac," they say, All round the lake the wet woods shake, All the kisses that I have given, "All the rivers run into the sea," All things have a double power, Alone I walked the ocean strand, A lovely sky, a cloudless sun, Although I enter not, A man's life is a tower, A man so various that he seemed to be, A man there came, whence none could tell, o'Queen, A monarch soul hath ruled thyself, O And are ye sure the news is true? And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now, And is the swallow gone? Answer me, burning stars of night! A poet! He hath put his heart to school, A power hid in pathos; a fire veiled in cloud : Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, A sensitive plant in a garden grew, A sentence hath formed a character,. A sentinel angel sitting high in glory, A serener blue, As I came round the harbor buoy,. W. Howitt, E. Spenser, 528 296 Scott, 477 Crabbe, 719 Pope, 767 Falconer, 217 Leland, 339 Rogers, 462 Massey,. 368 H. Smith, 511 Seaver, 482 Gilder, 233 A simple, sodded mound of earth, Preston,. 435 As I was sitting in a wood,. Ask me no more; the moon may draw the sea, Ask me no more where Jove bestows, Ask me why I send you here,. A slanting ray of evening light,. As leaves turned red,. . As light November snows to empty nests, A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, A sower went forth to sow, As precious gums are not for lasting fire, As sweet as the breath that goes, As sweet desire of day before the day, A steed, a steed of matchless speed! A street there is in Paris famous, As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood, A story of Ponce de Leon, A summer mist on the mountain heights, As virtuous men pass mildly away, As when a little child returned from play, As woodbine weds the plants, At dawn the fleet stretched miles away, At dawn when the jubilant morning broke, A thing of beauty is a joy forever,. A thousand daily sects rise up and die, A thousand years shall come and go,. At kirk knelt Valborg, the cold altar-stone, At midnight in his guarded tent, At our creation, but the word was said; A traveller across the desert waste, At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow, Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such, A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wife, as tender, and as true withal, Ay, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring day, Ay, but to die, and go we know not where, Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Bards of passion and of mirth, Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Becalmed along the azure sky, Trowbridge, 609 Because I feel that, in the heavens above, Because I hold it sinful to despond, Benighted in my pilgrimage,- alone,-. Tilton, 602 Be patient! oh, be patient! Put your ear against the earth, Trench, 604 By these mysterious ties, the busy power,. Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save, Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, Blessed is he who hath not trod the ways, Blessed is the man whose heart and hands are pure Blow, northern winds! Bowed half with age and half with reverence, Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, "But a week is so long!" he said, But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime, By numbers here from shame or censure free, By the flow of the inland river, . By the motes do we know where the sunbeam is slanting, By the pleasant paths we know, By the rude bridge that arched the flood, By the wayside, on a mossy stone,. Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, Calm on the bosom of our God, Centre of light and energy! thy way, Charlemagne, the mighty monarch, Children, that lay their pretty garlands by, "Choose thou between!" and to his enemy, Christ, whose glory fills the skies, Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, Cleon hath ten thousand acres, Keats, A. T. De Vere, 186 Whittier, 639 Symonds, 558 Shakespeare, 484 Hopkins, 828 M. Howitt,. 295 A. Fields, 224 311 658 |