Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!

Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,-
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.1

Elizabeth Barrett Browning: 1809-1861. (See page 137).

THE MINSTREL'S SONG.

OH sing unto my roundelay;
Oh drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more on holiday;

Like a running river be!
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed.

All under the willow tree!

Black his hair as the winter night,
White his throat as the summer snow,
Red his cheek as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree!

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be,

Deft his tabor,2 cudgel stout,

1 The fable means that the poet must endure sorrow before he can be in complete sympathy with human life; that suffering is one part of his education.

2 deft his tabor-dexterous his handling of the tambourine in the dance.

Oh, he lies by the willow tree.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree!

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briery dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree!

See the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree!

Thomas Chatterton: 1752-1770.

Chatterton was a native of Bristol, and of humble parentage. At the age of fifteen he made a great stir in the literary world by producing some remarkably clever imitations of ancient manuscripts which he affirmed to be original, wroten by ye gode prieste Thomas Rowley,' and discovered by himself in S. Mary's Church, Bristol. This imposition probably lost him the favour of many who would otherwise have welcomed him into the guild of literature. He came to London in 1770, and under the discouragements of ill-success and destitution, destroyed himself by poison in August of that year.

NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR.
(A True Story.)

NAPOLEON'S banners at Boulogne
Arm'd in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.

1

They suffer'd him-I know not how-
Unprison'd on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain half-way over;
With envy they could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.

At last, when care had banish'd sleep,
He saw one morning-dreaming-doating,
An empty hogshead from the deep

Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The livelong day laborious; lurking
Until he launch'd a tiny boat
By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond
Description wretched: such a wherry
Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or cross'd a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea-field,
It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,

No sail,-no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled1 willows;
And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd
The foaming billows-

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,
His little Argo 2 sorely jeering;

Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.

1 wattled-interlaced: (a redundancy).

Argo-ship. Argo was the ship in which Jason went to Colchis in search of the golden fleece' (see also page 119).

With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger;
And in his wonted attitude,

Address'd the stranger :

'Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd;
Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassion'd.'

'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad;
'But-absent long from one another-
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother.'

'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said,
'Ye've both my favour fairly won;
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son.'

He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And with a flag of truce commanded
He should be shipp'd to England Old,
And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift
To find a dinner plain and hearty;
But never chang'd the coin and gift
Of Bonaparte.

Thomas Campbell: 1777-1818.

Campbell was a native of Glasgow, and was educated at the university of that city. His first important work was Pleasures of Hope (published in 1779), which immediately established its author's reputation in poetry, a reputation developed into fame by his numerous subsequent productions. Campbell's verse is generally musical and calm, and pure and refined in feeling. It approaches sublimity in some of his war-songs, and these are the most admired of his writings.

IN SCHOOL-DAYS.

STILL sits the school-house by the road-
A ragged beggar sunning:
Around it still the sumachs1 grow,
And blackberry-vines are running.
Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep-scarr'd by raps official;
The warping floor, the batter'd seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;
The charcoal frescoes 2 on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun

Shone over it at setting,-
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.
It touch'd the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delay'd
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favour singled;
His cap pulled low upon a face

Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he linger'd,

As restlessly her tiny hands

The blue-check'd apron finger'd.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand's light caressing;

And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

1 sumachs-ornamental shrubs of the genus Rhus: sometimes

called Buck's-horn ash.

2 frescoes-wall-paintings.