The Cambridge Book of Poetry and Song

And call this hurrying fever, gener-And ous fire;

the pale weaver, through his windows seen

And sigh that one thing only has In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dis

been lent

To youth and age in common - dis

content.

IMMORTALITY,

FOILED by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn,

We leave the brutal world to take its way,

And, Patience! in another life, we say, The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.

And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn

The world's poor, routed leavings? or will they,

Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day,

pirited.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

Support the fervors of the heavenly Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st

morn?

indeed thy home.

AUSTERITY OF POETRY,

THAT son of Italy who tried to blow, Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred

song,

In his light youth amid a festal throug

Sate with his bride to see a public show.

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow

Youth like a star; and what to youth belong

Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.

A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo,

Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off and found

A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse!

young, gay,

Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground

Of thought and of austerity within.

"And with joy the stars perform In their own tasks all their powers

their shining,

pouring,

And the sea its long moon-silver'd These attain the mighty life you

see."

O air-born voice! long since, severely

clear,

A cry like thine in mine own heart
I hear:

"Resolve to be thyself; and know,

that he

Who finds himself, loses his misery!”

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE.

WE live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breath;
In feelings, not in figures on the dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat
For God, for man, for duty. He most lives,
Who thinks most, feels noblest, acts the best.
Life is but a means unto an end-that end.
Beginning, mean, and end to all things, God.

And maid, whose cheek outblooms The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,

Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil'd, and crouching low,

With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,

But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. . .

MY LOVE IS ON HER WAY.

Он, welcome bat and owlet gray, Thus winging low your airy way! And welcome moth and drowsy fly That to mine ear comes humming by!

The housewife's spindle whirling | And welcome shadows dim and deep,

round,

Or thread, or straw, that on the ground

Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless
skill,

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre, starting fair,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in

air,

Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like madam in her tantrums high: Though ne'er a madam of them all, Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall More varied trick and whim displays, To catch the admiring stranger's gaze....

But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts
explore

The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with alter'd air,
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Mold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter'd page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball,

And stars that through the pale sky

Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday,

Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch | And may be so to-morrow.)

JAMES BALLANTINE.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,

And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind,

Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha’e faith and ye'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o'dew.

Gin reft frae friends or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been,
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your een,
Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry,

The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,
And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,
And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

LIFE.

LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear

Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear; — Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS.

SWEET is the scene when virtue dies!

When sinks a righteous soul to rest, How mildly beam the closing eyes. How gently heaves th' expiring breast.

So fades a summer cloud away

So sinks the gale when storms are
o'er,

So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow, Fanned by some angel's purple wing;

Say not Good Night, but in some Where is, O Grave! thy victory now! And where, insidious Death, thy

brighter clime

Bid me Good Morning.

sting!

« Vorige Doorgaan »

Boeken