COME HOME, COME HOME. COME home, come home, and where is home for me, Fields once I walked in, faces once I knew, The dark clouds mutter, and the deep seas roar, Beyond the clouds, beyond the waves that roar, And offer exiles driven far o'er the salt sea foam But toil and pain must wear out many a day, With accents whispered in his wayworn ear, A voice he dares to listen to, say, Come To thy true home. Come home, come home! And where a home hath he Whose ship is driving o'er the driving sea? Through clouds that mutter, and o'er waves that roar, That is, as is not ship or ocean foam, QUA CURSUM VENTUS. As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay Are scarce long leagues apart descried; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, E'en so-but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Astounded, soul from soul estranged? At dead of night their sails were filled, To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, But O blithe breeze! and O great seas, One port, methought, alike they sought, "WHAT WENT YE OUT FOR TO SEE?" ACROSS the sea, along the shore, In numbers ever more and more, The valley through, the mountain down, Ye silly folk of Galilee? The reed that in the wind doth shake? The weed that washes in the lake? The reeds that waver, the weeds that float? "A young man preaching in a boat." What was it ye went out to hear, Of those who sit in Moses' seat, From them that in her courts ye saw, A prophet! Boys and women weak! Whence is it he hath learned to speak? A prophet? Prophet wherefore he He teacheth with authority, And not as do the Scribes. WHERE ARE THE GREAT, WHOM THOU WOULDST WISH TO PRAISE THEE? WHERE are the great, whom thou wouldst wish to praise thee? Where are the pure, whom thou wouldst choose to love thee? Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee, Whose high commands would cheer, whose chiding raise thee? Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to find In the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind. CHARLES KINGSLEY. Born 1819. Died 1875. THE SANDS OF DEE. O MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, The creeping tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The blinding mist came down, and hid the land- "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— O' drownèd maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair A FAREWELL. My fairest child, I have no song to give you ; For every day. I'll teach you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark's, who hails the dawn o'er breezy down, To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown. Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever ; LORRAINE. "Are you ready or your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe? To keep him straight, and keep him first, and win the run for me." She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree. "I cannot ride Vindictive, as any man might see, And I will not ride Vindictive, with this baby on my knee, He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and why should he kill me?" "Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorrèe, And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, "That husbands could be cruel," said Lorraine Lorraine, Lorrèe, "That husbands could be cruel, I have known for seasons three; But oh! to ride Vindictive, while a baby cries for me, And be killed across a fence at last for all the world to see!" She mastered young Vindictive,-oh! the gallant lass was she! MINOR POETS. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Born 1785. Died 1806. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, And hardens her to bear CHARLES WOLFE. Born 1791. Died 1823. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him : Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, |