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The Wants of Man "Man wants but little hora bolars:
"Iar acounts that little long
Would muster many a fome:
I still should long for more
TO THE IDOL OF MY EYE AND DELIGHT OF MY HEART,
THREE Poets, in three distant ages born,
WOULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng,
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway ; To breathe delight Anne hath a way. When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, And merit to distress betray, To soothe the heart Anne hath a way. She hath a way to chase despair, To heal all grief, to cure all care, Turn foulest night to fairest day. Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way ;
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway ;
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway ;
TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON.
THE Muse's fairest light in no dark time,
But were it to my fancy given
The dreamy rhymer's measured snore Falls heavy on our cars no more ;
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
And by long strides are left behind
Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet The dear delights of womankind,
As gracious natures find his song to be ; Who wage their battles like their loves,
May Age steal on with softly-cadenced feet In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
Falling in music, as for him were meet And have achieved the crowning work
Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he! When they have trussed and skewered a Turk.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Another comes with stouter tread, And stalks among the statelier dead. He rushes on, and hails by turns
VERSES BY HENRY MARTEN, High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns ; And shows the British youth, who ne'er Will lag behind, what Romans were
(Confined in prison by Charles II., where he died in 1681, after When all the Tuscans and their Lars
thirty years' imprisonment. The initial letters of the lines form an Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.
rth, air, or water gripes my ghostless dust,
None knowing when brave fire shall set it free. TO H. W. L.,
Reader, if you an oft-tried rule will trust,
You 'll gladly do and suffer what you must. ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 1867. I NEED not praise the sweetness of his song,
My life was worn with serving you and you, Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he and death is my reward, and welcome, too
Revenge destroying but itself ; while I wrong
To birds of prey leave my old cage and fly. The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along, Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds. Examples preach to the eye, -care, then, mine
says With loving breath of all the winds his name
Not how you end but how you spend your days. Is blown about the world, but to his friends A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim To murmur a God bless you ! and there ends.
INSCRIPTION FOR MARTEN'S PRISON. As I muse backward up the checkered years
(The immolation of this republican judge was celebrated in the But hush! this is not for profaner ears ;
following lines by the youthful Southey during his short experience
as a democratic regenerator. In their original publication they Let them drink molten pearls nor dream the
were called : " Inscription for the Apartment in Cheapstone cost.
Castle where Henry Marten the Regicide was imprisoned thirty
Years." After Southey became Poet Laureate he endeavored to Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core,
suppress the poem, but unsuccessfully.) As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground;
For thirty years secluded from mankind, Love turned all his to heart's-case, and the more
Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls Fate tried his bastions, she but forced a door,
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound. He paced around his prison : not to him
Did nature's fair varieties exist : Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade He never saw the sun's delightful beams, Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with Save when through yon high bars it poured a sad sun,
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime? So through his trial faith translucent rayed He had rebelled against the king, and sat Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed In judgment on him ; for his ardent mind A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun. Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams, but such Surely if skill in song the shears may stay As Plato loved ; such as, with holy zeal, And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss,
Our Milton worshipped. Blessed hopes ! awhile If our poor life be lengthened by a lay,
From man withheld, even to the latter days, He shall not go, although his presence may, When Christ shall come and all things be fulfilled.
And the next age in praise shall double this.
INSCRIPTION FOR BROWNRIGG'S CELL.
(Canning, who was retained by the other side, parodied Southey's honest lines in the "Anti-Jacobin," November 20, 1797, by the fol. lowing verses, entitled: "Inscription for the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg the 'Prentice-cide was confined previous to her Execution.'')
For one long term, or ere her trial
came, Here Brownrigg lingered. Often have these cells Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice She screamed for fresh geneva.
Not to her Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, St. Giles, its fair varieties expand; Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went To execution. Dost thou ask her crime ? She whipped two female 'prentices to death, And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage
schemes! Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog The little Spartans ; such as erst chastised Our Milton, when at college. For this act Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws ! but time
shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed.
And streams their diamond mirrors hold
To summer's face returning,
Shall nevermore be lighter,
Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter ! But all the more intensely true
His soul gave out each feature Of elemental love, — each hue
And grace of golden nature, The deeper still beneath it all
Lurked the keen jags of anguish ; The more the laurels clasped his brow
Their poison made it languish.
Of his own mournful singing,
While most the thorn was stinging.
Did fount bring freshness deeper Than that his placid rest this morn
Has brought the shrouded sleeper.
Where charnels choke the city,
The wren shall wake its ditty ;
Is dear to hearts regretting, Around that spot admiring thought
Shall hover, unforgetting.
ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM.
WHENCE could arise the mighty critic spleen,
No more these simple flowers belong
To Scottish maid and lover; Sown in the common soil of song,
They bloom the wide world over.
The minstrel and the heather,
He sang of live together.
The moorland flower and peasant ! How, at their mention, memory turns
Her pages old and pleasant ! The gray sky wears again its gold
And purple of adorning, And manhood's noonday shadows hold
The dews of boyhood's morning. The dews that washed the dust and soil
From off the wings of pleasure,
TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD.
TAKE back into thy bosom, earth,
This joyous, May-eyed morrow, The gentlest child that ever mirth
Gave to be reared by sorrow ! 'Tis hard while rays half green, half gold,
Through vernal bowers are burning,
The sky, that flecked the ground of toil
With golden threads of leisure.
I matched with Scotland's heathery hills
The sweet-brier and the clover; With Ayr and Doon, my native rills,
Their wood-hymns chanting over.
I call to mind the summer day,
The early harvest mowing, The sky with sun and clouds at play,
And flowers with breezes blowing.
O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen,
I saw the Man uprising ;
The child of God's baptizing.
I hear the blackbird in the corn,
The locust in the haying; Anıl, like the fableil hunter's horn,
Old tunes my heart is playing.
With clearer eyes I saw the worth
Of life among the lowly;
Had made my own more holy.
And if at times an evil strain,
To lawless love appealing, Broke in upon the sweet refrain
Of pure and healthful feeling,
It died upon the eye and ear,
No inward answer gaining; No heart had I to see or hear
The discord and the staining.
Let those who never erred forget
His worth, in vain bewailings; Sweet Soul of Song !- I own my debt
Uncancelled by his failings !
Lament who will the ribald line
Which tells his lapse from duty, How kissed the maddening lips of wine,
Or wanton ones of beauty;
How oft that day, with fond delay,
I sought the maple's shadow,
Forgetful of the meadow !
I heard the squirrels leaping ;
And wagged his tail in keeping.
I read “The Twa Dogs' " story,
The poet's allegory.
Grew brighter for that singing,
A dearer welcome bringing.
New glory over Woman ;
No longer poor and common.
Of fact and feeling better
A still repining debtor :
The themes of sweet discoursing;
In every tongue rehearsing.
Of loving knight and lady,
Were wandering there already ?
The romance underlying ;
Of Fancy skyward flying.
The same sweet fall of even,
And sank on crystal Devon.
But think, while falls that shade between
The erring one and Heaven, That he who loved like Magdalen,
Like her may be forgiven.
Not his the song whose thunderous chime
Eternal echoes render, The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme,
And Milton's starry splendor ;
But who his human heart has laid
To Nature's bosom nearer ? Who sweetened toil like him, or paid
To love a tribute dearer ?
Through all his tuneful art, how strong
The human feeling gushes ! The very moonlight of his song
Is warm with smiles and blushes !
Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time,
So “ Bonny Doon " but tarry; Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, But spare his Highland Mary !
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER