And here's to thane and yeoman, Drink, lads, drink! To horseman and to bowman, Clink, jugs, clink ! To lofty and to low man, MARIAN Thomas Ashe PASSING feet pause, as they pass, By the linchen'd wicket gate, Here have fallen as many tears Seven and ten brief sunny springs; Watch beside the pale dog-rose; On this hillock, while she sleeps Underneath, the red-breast sings. Wedded on an April day! In the Autumn laid away! And dusk and golden hair, And lips that broke in kisses long ago, And wood and hill, and morning and dayfall, And every place and hour! And each on each a white unclouded brow Still as a sister bends, As they would say, "love makes us kindred now, Who sometime were his friends." BY THE SALPÉTRIÈRE I SAW a poor old woman on the bench Gave hint of bitter days to come ere long. Means light of heart, I could not but demand "Why, now, so near to weeping, citizen?" She look'd up at me with vague surprise, And said, "You see I'm old; I'm very old: And love is in their mien and in their look, I'm eighty years and nine; and people say And from their lips a stream Of tender words flows, smooth as any brook, And softer than a dream: And, one by one, holding my hands, they say And each head will a little turn away, This winter will be hard. And we have here, We poor old women in this hospital, A mortal dread of one strange bitter thing. crave, Who 've striven ninety years, and come to this, And we would have the priest to say a prayer To the good God for us, within the church, Before we go the way that go we must. And sou by sou we save a coffin costs, You hear, Sir? - sixteen francs; and if we go To church en route, 't is six francs for the priest. There's some of us have sav'd it all, and smile, With the receipt sew'd up, lest they should lose This passport to the grave of honest folk. And back they take the coffin for the next. chance. Good God! and I shall die: I know I shall : I feel it here! and I have ten francs just : No more!" My tears fell like a shower of rain. I said, "Old woman, here's the other twelve;" And fled, with great strides, like a man possess'd. A VISION OF CHILDREN I DREAM'D I saw a little brook Run rippling down the Strand; With cherry-trees and apple-trees Abloom on either hand : The sparrows gather'd from the Squares, Upon the branches green; The pigeons flock'd from Palace-Yard, Afresh their wings to preen; And children down St. Martin's Lane, And out of Westminster, Came trooping, many a thousand strong, With a bewilder'd air. They hugg'd each other round the neck And titter'd for delight, To see the yellow daffodils, And see the daisies white; And sandwich-men stood still aghast, POETA NASCITUR THE flame-wing'd seraph spake a word To one of Galilee : "Be not afraid: know, of the Lord Is that is born of thee." And by the poet's bliss and woe Learn we the will of Heaven: He is God's instrument; and so Swords in his heart are seven. He is God's oracle and slave, Theodore Watts ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKEN (ON SEEING A STORM-PETREL IN A CAGE ON A COTTAGE WALL AND RELEASING IT) GAZE not at me, my poor unhappy bird; That sorrow is more than human in thine eye; Too deep already is my spirit stirr'd To see thee here, child of the sea and sky, Coop'd in a cage with food thou canst not eat, Thy "snow-flake" soil'd, and soil'd those conquering feet That walk'd the billows, while thy "sweetsweet-sweet" Proclaim'd the tempest nigh. Bird whom I welcom'd while the sailors curs'd, Friend whom I bless'd wherever keels may roam, Prince of my childish dreams, whom mermaids nurs'd In purple of billows silver of oceanfoam, Abash'd I stand before the mighty grief That quells all other: Sorrow's king and chief: 'To ride the wind and hold the sea in fief, Then find a cage for home! From out thy jail thou seest yon heath and woods, But canst thou hear the birds or smell the flowers? Ah, no! those rain-drops twinkling on the buds Bring only visions of the salt sea-showers. "The sea!" the linnets pipe from hedge and heath; "The sea!" the honeysuckles whisper and breathe; And tumbling waves, where those wild-roses wreathe, Murmur from inland bowers. To thee yon swallow seems a wheeling tern. And when the rain recalls the briny lash Old Ocean's kiss thou lovest, - when thy sight Is mock'd with Ocean's horses- manes of white, The long and shadowy flanks, the shoulders bright Bright as the lightning's flash,— When all these scents of heather and brier and whin, All kindly breaths of land-shrub, flower, and vine, Recall the sea-scents, till thy feather'd skin Dost see between the bars a world of dearth, But I can buy thy freedom-I (thank Who lov'd thee more than albatross or gull, A restless lore like that the billows teach; For on these sonnet-waves my soul would reach From its own depths, and rest within you, dear, As, through the billowy voices yearning here, Great nature strives to find a human speech. A sonnet is a wave of melody: From heaving waters of the impassion'd soul A billow of tidal music one and whole |