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The Blue Poetry Book
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THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD
We sat within the farm-house old,Whose windows, looking o’er the bay,Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,An easy entrance, night and day.Not far away we saw the port,The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,The light-house, the dismantled fort,The wooden houses, quaint and brown.We sat and talked until the night,Descending, filled the little room;Our faces faded from the sight,Our voices only broke the gloom.We spake of many a vanished scene,Of what we once had thought and said,Of what had been, and might have been,And who was changed, and who was dead;And all that fills the hearts of friends,When first they feel, with secret pain,Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,And never can be one again.The first light swerving of the heart,That words are powerless to express,And leave it still unsaid in part,Or say it in too great excess.The very tones in which we spakeHad something strange, I could but mark;The leaves of memory seemed to makeA mournful rustling in the dark.Oft died the words upon our lips,As suddenly, from out the fireBuilt of the wreck of stranded ships,The flames would leap and then expire.And, as their splendour flashed and failed,We thought of wrecks upon the main, —Of ships dismasted, that were hailedAnd sent no answer back again.The windows, rattling in their frames,The ocean, roaring up the beach,The gusty blast, the bickering flames,All mingled vaguely in our speech;Until they made themselves a partOf fancies floating through the brain,The long-lost ventures of the heart,That send no answers back again.O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!They were indeed too much akin,The drift wood fire without that burned,The thoughts that burned and glowed within.H. W. Longfellow.THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR
The mountain sheep are sweeter,But the valley sheep are fatter;We therefore deemed it meeterTo carry off the latter.We made an expedition;We met an host and quelled it;We forced a strong position,And killed the men who held it.On Dyfed’s richest valley,Where herds of kine were browsing,We made a mighty sally,To furnish our carousing.Fierce warriors rushed to meet us;We met them, and o’erthrew them:They struggled hard to beat us;But we conquered them, and slew them.As we drove our prize at leisure,The king marched forth to catch us:His rage surpassed all measure,But his people could not match us.He fled to his hall-pillars;And, ere our force we led off,Some sacked his house and cellars,While others cut his head off.We there, in strife bewildering,Spilt blood enough to swim in,We orphaned many children,And widowed many women.The eagles and the ravensWe glutted with our foemenThe heroes and the cravens,The spearmen and the bowmen.We brought away from battle,And much their land bemoaned them,Two thousand head of cattle,And the head of him who owned them:Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,His head was borne before us;His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,And his overthrow, our chorus.T. L. Peacock.ARETHUSA
Arethusa aroseFrom her couch of snowsIn the Acroceraunian mountains, —From cloud and from crag,With many a jagShepherding her bright fountains.She leapt down the rocksWith her rainbow locksStreaming among the streams;Her steps paved with greenThe downward ravineWhich slopes to the western gleams:And gliding and springing,She went, ever singing,In murmurs as soft as sleep.The Earth seemed to love herAnd Heaven smiled above her,As she lingered towards the deep.Then Alpheus bold,On his glacier cold,With his trident the mountains strook,And opened a chasmIn the rocks: – with the spasmAll Erymanthus shook.And the black south windIt concealed behindThe urns of the silent snow,And earthquake and thunderDid rend in sunderThe bars of the springs below.The beard and the hairOf the River-god wereSeen through the torrent’s sweep,As he followed the lightOf the fleet Nymph’s flightTo the brink of the Dorian deep.‘Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!And bid the deep hide me.For he grasps me now by the hair!’The loud Ocean heard,To its blue depth stirred,And divided at her prayer;And under the waterThe Earth’s white daughterFled like a sunny beam;Behind her descended,Her billows, unblendedWith the brackish Dorian stream.Like a gloomy stainOn the emerald mainAlpheus rushed behind, —As an eagle pursuingA dove to its ruinDown the streams of the cloudy wind.Under the bowersWhere the Ocean PowersSit on their pearlèd thrones;Through the coral woodsOf the weltering floods;Over heaps of unvalued stones;Through the dim beamsWhich amid the streamsWeave a network of coloured light;And under the caves,Where the shadowy wavesAre as green as the forest’s night:Outspeeding the shark,And the swordfish dark, —Under the ocean foam,And up through the riftsOf the mountain clifts, —They passed to their Dorian home.And now from their fountainsIn Enna’s mountains,Down one vale where the morning basks,Like friends once partedGrown single-hearted,They ply their watery tasks.At sunrise they leapFrom their cradles steepIn the cave of the shelving hill;At noontide they flowThrough the woods belowAnd the meadows of asphodel;And at night they sleepIn the rocking deepBeneath the Ortygian shore, —Like spirits that lieIn the azure skyWhen they love but live no more.P. B. Shelley.THE DAY IS DONE
The day is done, and the darknessFalls from the wings of Night,As a feather is wafted downwardFrom an eagle in his flight.I see the lights of the villageGleam through the rain and the mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,That my soul cannot resist;A feeling of sadness and longing,That is not akin to pain,And resembles sorrow onlyAs the mist resembles the rain.Come, read to me some poem,Some simple and heartfelt lay,That shall soothe this restless feeling,And banish the thoughts of day.Not from the grand old masters,Not from the bards sublime,Whose distant footsteps echoThrough the corridors of Time.For, like strains of martial music,Their mighty thoughts suggestLife’s endless toil and endeavour;And to-night I long for rest.Read from some humbler poet,Whose songs gushed from his heart,As showers from the clouds of summer,Or tears from the eyelids start;Who, through long days of labour,And nights devoid of ease,Still heard in his soul the musicOf wonderful melodies.Such songs have power to quietThe restless pulse of care,And come like the benedictionThat follows after prayer.Then read from the treasured volumeThe poem of thy choice,And lend to the rhyme of the poetThe beauty of thy voice.And the night shall be filled with music,And the cares that infest the dayShall fold their tents, like the Arabs,And as silently steal away.H. W. Longfellow.SONG
A weary lot is thine, fair maid,A weary lot is thine!To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,And press the rue for wine!A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien,A feather of the blue,A doublet of the Lincoln green, —No more of me you knew,My love!No more of me you knew.‘This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she shall bloom in winter snow,Ere we two meet again.’He turn’d his charger as he spake,Upon the river shore,He gave his bridle-reins a shake,Said, ‘Adieu for evermore,My love!And adieu for evermore.’Sir W. Scott.THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS
We walked along, while bright and redUprose the morning sun:And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,‘The will of God be done!’A village schoolmaster was he,With hair of glittering grey;As blithe a man as you could seeOn a spring holiday.And on that morning, through the grass,And by the steaming rills,We travelled merrily, to passA day among the hills.‘Our work,’ said I, ‘was well begun;Then, from thy breast what thought,Beneath so beautiful a sun,So sad a sigh has brought?’A second time did Matthew stop;And fixing still his eyeUpon the eastern mountain-top,To me he made reply:’Yon cloud with that long purple cleftBrings fresh into my mindA day like this which I have leftFull thirty years behind.’And just above yon slope of cornSuch colours, and no other,Were in the sky, that April morn,Of this the very brother.’With rod and line I sued the sportWhich that sweet season gave,And, to the church-yard come, stopped shortBeside my daughter’s grave.’Nine summers had she scarcely seen,The pride of all the vale;And then she sang; – she would have beenA very nightingale.’Six feet in earth my Emma lay;And yet I loved her more,For so it seemed, than till that dayI e’er had loved before.’And, turning from her grave, I met,Beside the church-yard yew,A blooming girl, whose hair was wetWith points of morning dew.’A basket on her head she bare;Her brow was smooth and white:To see a child so very fairIt was a pure delight!’No fountain from its rocky caveE’er tripped with foot so free;She seemed as happy as a waveThat dances on the sea.‘There came from me a sigh of painWhich I could ill confine;I looked at her, and looked again,And did not wish her mine!’Matthew is in his grave, yet now,Methinks, I see him stand,As at that moment, with a boughOf wilding in his hand.W. Wordsworth.TO HELEN
Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicèan barks of yoreThat gently, o’er a perfumed sea,The weary wayworn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,To the grandeur that was Rome.Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche,How statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand!Ah, Psyche, from the regions whichAre holy land!E. A. Poe.THE SKYLARK
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place —Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loud,Far in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O’er fell and fountain sheen,O’er moor and mountain green,O’er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow’s rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather bloomsSweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place —Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!J. Hogg.FIDELE
Fear no more the heat o’ the sunNor the furious winter’s rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone and ta’en thy wages:Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.Fear no more the frown o’ the great,Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;Care no more to clothe, and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.Fear no more the lightning flash.Nor the all-dreaded thunder-toneFear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finish’d joy and moanAll lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.W. Shakespeare.CUMNOR HALL
The dews of summer night did fall;The moon, sweet Regent of the sky,Silver’d the walls of Cumnor Hall,And many an oak that grew thereby.Now nought was heard beneath the skies,The sounds of busy life were still,Save an unhappy lady’s sighsThat issued from that lonely pile.‘Leicester!’ she cried, ‘is this thy loveThat thou so oft hast sworn to me,To leave me in this lonely grove,Immured in shameful privity?‘No more thou com’st with lover’s speedThy once-belovèd bride to see;But, be she alive, or be she dead,I fear, stern Earl, ’s the same to thee.‘Not so the usage I receivedWhen happy in my father’s hall;No faithless husband then me grieved,No chilling fears did me appal.‘I rose up with the cheerful morn,No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;And like the bird that haunts the thornSo merrily sung the livelong day.‘If that my beauty is but small,Among court ladies all despised,Why didst thou rend it from that hall,Where, scornful Earl! it well was prized?‘But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,Or ’tis not beauty lures thy vows;Rather, ambition’s gilded crownMakes thee forget thy humble spouse.‘Then, Leicester, why, – again I plead,The injured surely may repine, —Why didst thou wed a country maid,When some fair Princess might be thine?‘Why didst thou praise my humble charms,And oh! then leave them to decay?Why didst thou win me to thy arms,Then leave to mourn the livelong day?‘The village maidens of the plainSalute me lowly as they go;Envious they mark my silken train,Nor think a Countess can have woe.‘How far less blest am I than them!Daily to pine and waste with care!Like the poor plant, that, from its stemDivided, feels the chilling air.‘My spirits flag – my hopes decay —Still that dread death-bell smites my ear:And many a boding seems to say,Countess, prepare, thy end is near!’Thus sore and sad that Lady grievedIn Cumnor Hall so lone and drear;And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,And let fall many a bitter tear.And ere the dawn of day appear’d,In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,Full many a piercing scream was heard,And many a cry of mortal fear.The death-bell thrice was heard to ring;An aerial voice was heard to call,And thrice the raven flapp’d its wingAround the towers of Cumnor Hall.The mastiff howl’d at village door,The oaks were shatter’d on the green;Woe was the hour – for never moreThat hapless Countess e’er was seen!And in that manor now no moreIs cheerful feast and sprightly ball;For ever since that dreary hourHave spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.The village maids, with fearful glance,Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;Nor ever lead the merry danceAmong the groves of Cumnor Hall.Full many a traveller oft hath sigh’d,And pensive wept the Countess’ fall,As wand’ring onwards they’ve espiedThe haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.W. F. Mickle.TO A SKYLARK
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!Bird thou never wert —That from heaven or near itPourest thy full heartIn profuse strains of unpremeditated art.Higher still and higherFrom the earth thou springest:Like a cloud of fire,The blue deep thou wingest,And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.In the golden lightningOf the sunken sun,O’er which clouds are brightening,Thou dost float and run,Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.The pale purple evenMelts around thy flight;Like a star of heavenIn the broad daylight,Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight —Keen as are the arrowsOf that silver sphereWhose intense lamp narrowsIn the white dawn clear,Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.All the earth and airWith thy voice is loud,As, when night is bare,From one lonely cloudThe moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.What thou art we know not;What is most like thee?From rainbow clouds there flow notDrops so bright to seeAs from thy presence showers a rain of melody: —Like a poet hiddenIn the light of thought,Singing hymns unbidden,Till the world is wroughtTo sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:Like a high-born maidenIn a palace tower,Soothing her love-ladenSoul in secret hourWith music sweet as love which overflows her bower:Like a glow-worm goldenIn a dell of dew,Scattering unbeholdenIts aërial hueAmong the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:Like a rose emboweredIn its own green leaves,By warm winds deflower’d,Till the scent it givesMakes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves.Sound of vernal showersOn the twinkling grass,Rain-awaken’d flowers,All that ever was,Joyous and clear and fresh, – thy music doth surpass.Teach us, sprite or bird,What sweet thoughts are thine:I have never heardPraise of love or wineThat panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.Chorus hymenealOr triumphal chaunt,Match’d with thine, would be allBut an empty vaunt —A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.What objects are the fountainsOf thy happy strain?What fields, or waves, or mountains?What shapes of sky or plain?What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?With thy clear keen joyanceLanguor cannot be:Shadow of annoyanceNever came near thee:Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.Waking or asleep,Thou of death must deemThings more true and deepThan we mortals dream,Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?We look before and after,And pine for what is not:Our sincerest laughterWith some pain is fraught;Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.Yet, if we could scorn,Hate and pride, and fear;If we were things bornNot to shed a tear,I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.Better than all measuresOf delightful sound,Better than all treasuresThat in books are found,Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!Teach me half the gladnessThat thy brain must know;Such harmonious madnessFrom my lips would flowThe world should listen then as I am listening now!P. B. Shelley.THE NIGHTINGALE
As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shade,Which a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring,Everything did banish moanSave the nightingale alone.She, poor bird, as all forlorn,Lean’d her breast against a thorn,And there sung the dolefullest dittyThat to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Tereu, tereu, by-and-by:That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.– Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee:King Pandion, he is dead,All thy friends are lapp’d in lead:All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like theeNone alive will pity me.R. Barnefield.THE SLEEPER
At midnight, in the month of June,I stand beneath the mystic moon:An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,Exhales from out her golden rim;And, softly dripping, drop by drop,Upon the quiet mountain top,Steals drowsily and musicallyInto the universal valley.The rosemary nods upon the grave;The lily lolls upon the wave;Wrapping the fog about its breast,The ruin moulders into rest;Looking like Lethe, see, the lakeA conscious slumber seems to take,And would not, for the world, awake.All Beauty sleeps! – and, lo! where lies(Her casement open to the skies)Irene, with her destinies!O, lady bright, can it be right,This window open to the night?The wanton airs from the tree-top,Laughingly through the lattice drop;The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,Flit through thy chamber in and out,And wave the curtain canopySo fitfully, so fearfully,Above the closed and fringèd lid‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,That, o’er the floor and down the wall,Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?Why and what art thou dreaming here?Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,A wonder to these garden trees.Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress,Strange, above all, thy length of tress,And this all-solemn silentness.The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,Which is enduring, so be deep!Heaven have her in its sacred keep!This chamber changed for one more holy,This bed for one more melancholy,I pray to God that she may lieFor ever with unopened eye,While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!My love, she sleeps! O, may her sleep,As it is lasting, so be deep!Soft may the worms about her creep!Far in the forest, dim and old,For her may some tall vault unfold —Some vault that oft hath flung its blackAnd wingèd panels fluttering backTriumphant o’er the crested pallsOf her grand family funerals;Some sepulchre remote, alone,Against whose portal she had thrown,In childhood many an idle stone;Some tomb from out whose sounding doorShe ne’er shall force an echo more,Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,It was the dead who groaned within.E. A. Poe.SPRING
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The palm and may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye, birds tune this merry lay,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,In every street, these tunes our ears do greet,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring! the sweet Spring!T. Nashe.THE BATTLE OF NASEBY
(BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITHLINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON’S REGIMENT)Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,The General rode along us to form us to the fight,When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell’d into a shoutAmong the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,The cry of battle rises along their charging line!For God! for the Cause! for the Church, for the Laws!For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks,For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:Hark! hark! – What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hideTheir coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:And he – he turns, he flies: – shame on those cruel eyesThat bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,First give another stab to make your search secure,Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,Your perfum’d satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown,With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls:The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword;And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hearWhat the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.Lord Macaulay.ROSABELLE
O listen, listen, ladies gay!No haughty feat of arms I tell;Soft is the note, and sad the lay,That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.‘Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.‘The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch3 and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.‘Last night the gifted Seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?’ —‘’Tis not because Lord Lindesay’s heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my ladye-mother thereSits lonely in her castle-hall.‘’Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chide,If ’tis not fill’d by Rosabelle.’ —O’er Roslin all that dreary night,A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;’Twas broader than the watch-fire’s light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.It glared on Roslin’s castled rock,It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of oak,And seen from cavern’d Hawthornden.Seem’d all on fire that chapel proud,Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin’d lie,Each Baron, for a sable shroud,Sheathed in his iron panoply.Seem’d all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmer’d all the dead men’s mail.Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair —So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high St. Clair.There are twenty of Roslin’s barons boldLie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold —But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!And each St. Clair was buried there,With candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild wings sung,The dirge of lovely Rosabelle!Sir W. Scott.
