poem.id,poem.ts,poem.title,poem.author,poem.content
101,"2018-02-27 21:08:40","April 21","David Lehman","I'm a very average person,and I think most people are.I vote with the common man.I have two kids, a boy and a girl.Last Sunday I played golf with the boss.Hey, it beats working.I'm his wife. I may be brainless butI'm her husband. I played golf with herLast Sunday I played golf with the bossand it was the first warm morning in Mayand like every other moron driving a lawnmowerI'm their husband. I may be brainless butI'm their wife. I'm their mother. I have two kids, a boy and a girl,and it was the first warm morning in Mayand I think most people arelike every other moron driving a lawnmower.I'm a very average person.I vote with the common man.Hey, it beats working."
102,"2018-02-27 21:08:42","April 24","David Lehman","Did you know that Evian spelled backwards is naive?I myself was unaware of this fact until last Tuesday nightwhen John Ashbery, Marc Cohen, and Eugene Richiegave a poetry reading and I introduced themto an audience that already knew them,and there were bottles of Evian at the table.As air to the lungs of a drowning man wasa glass of this water to my dry lips. I recommend itto you, a lover of palindromes, who will alsobe glad to learn that JA read us three ""chapters""of his new poem, ""Girls on the Run,"" a twelve-part saga inspired by girls' adventure stories, withcharacters named Dimples and Tidbit plus Talkative and Hopeful on loan from ""Pilgrim's Progress.""As Frank O'Hara would have said, ""it's the nuts.""The poets' books were on sale and afterwardstwo of the poets signed theirs happily and the thirddid so willingly and Joe took photos and I smiledfor the camera, shaking hands with peopleI knew or didn't know and thinking howblessed was the state of naivetemy naive belief in the glory of the word"
103,"2018-02-27 21:08:46","April 26","David Lehman","When my fatherSaid mein FehlerI thought it meant""I'm a failure""which was my errorwhich is whatmein Fehler meansin German whichis what my parentsspoke at home"
104,"2018-02-27 21:08:48","April 18","Sylvia Plath","Unfortunately this poem has been removed from our archives at the insistence of the copyright holder."
105,"2018-02-27 21:08:53","Always Marry An April Girl","Ogden Nash","Praise the spells and bless the charms,I found April in my arms.April golden, April cloudy,Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;April soft in flowered languor,April cold with sudden anger,Ever changing, ever true --I love April, I love you."
106,"2018-02-27 21:08:54","An April Day","Henry Wadsworth Longfellow","When the warm sun, that bringsSeed-time and harvest, has returned again,'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springsThe first flower of the plain.I love the season well,When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretellThe coming-on of storms.From the earth's loosened mouldThe sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,The drooping tree revives.The softly-warbled songComes from the pleasant woods, and colored wingsGlance quick in the bright sun, that moves alongThe forest openings.When the bright sunset fillsThe silver woods with light, the green slope throwsIts shadows in the hollows of the hills,And wide the upland glows.And when the eve is born,In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,And twinkles many a star.Inverted in the tideStand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,And the fair trees look over, side by side,And see themselves below.Sweet April! many a thoughtIs wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,Life's golden fruit is shed."
107,"2018-02-27 21:08:57","Song Of A Second April","Edna St. Vincent Millay","April this year, not otherwiseThan April of a year ago,Is full of whispers, full of sighs,Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;Hepaticas that pleased you soAre here again, and butterflies.There rings a hammering all day,And shingles lie about the doors;In orchards near and far awayThe grey wood-pecker taps and bores;The men are merry at their chores,And children earnest at their play.The larger streams run still and deep,Noisy and swift the small brooks runAmong the mullein stalks the sheepGo up the hillside in the sun,Pensively,—only you are gone,You that alone I cared to keep."
108,"2018-02-27 21:09:01","April Violet","Raymond A. Foss","A new bloomfrilly and pinkbetween the rich and greengrafted and grown by your handswarmed in the sungiven to megone but rememberedpreserved in resin,and memory6/4/04 20:50 – About a special new breed of violet that my paternal grandmother, Jessie Foss, gave me when I was a pre-teen. I preserved the bloom in resin, which cracked because of the moisture in it."
109,"2018-02-27 21:09:01","Autumn moonlight","Matsuo Basho","Autumn moonlight-- a worm digs silently into the chestnut."
110,"2018-02-27 21:09:03","SONNET OF AUTUMN","Charles Baudelaire","THEY say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: ""Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?"" Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise All save that antique brute-like faith of thine; And will not bare the secret of their shame To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long, Nor their black legend write for thee in flame! Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat, Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow, And I too well his ancient arrows know: Crime, horror, folly. O pale marguerite, Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low, O my so white, my so cold Marguerite."
111,"2018-02-27 21:09:07","Autumn Movement","Carl Sandburg","I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts. The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds. The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts."
112,"2018-02-27 21:09:10","To Autumn","William Blake","O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'dWith the blood of the grape, pass not, but sitBeneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,And all the daughters of the year shall dance!Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.'The narrow bud opens her beauties toThe sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, andFlourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.'The spirits of the air live in the smellsOf fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves roundThe gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleakHills fled from our sight; but left his golden load."
113,"2018-02-27 21:09:10","Autumn Fires","Robert Louis Stevenson","In the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail! Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The grey smoke towers. Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall!"
114,"2018-02-27 21:09:12","Autumn in the Garden","Henry Van Dyke","When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the darkMakes its markOn the flowers, and the misty morning grievesOver fallen leaves;Then my olden garden, where the golden soilThrough the toilOf a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,Whispers in its sleep.'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,Where the boxBorders with its glossy green the ancient walks,There's a voice that talksOf the human hopes that bloomed and withered hereYear by year,--Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours,Fading as the flowers.Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief;But reliefFor the loneliness of sorrow seems to flowFrom the Long-Ago,When I think of other lives that learned, like mine,To resign,And remember that the sadness of the fallComes alike to all.What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs!And what prayersFor the silent strength that nerves us to endureThings we cannot cure!Pacing up and down the garden where they paced,I have tracedAll their well-worn paths of patience, till I findComfort in my mind.Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear:Yet how nearIs the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face,Of the human race!Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart,Not apart!They who know the sorrows other lives have knownNever walk alone."
115,"2018-02-27 21:09:15","Autumn Song","Katherine Mansfield","Now's the time when children's nosesAll become as red as rosesAnd the colour of their facesMakes me think of orchard placesWhere the juicy apples grow,And tomatoes in a row.And to-day the hardened sinnerNever could be late for dinner,But will jump up to the tableJust as soon as he is able,Ask for three times hot roast mutton--Oh! the shocking little glutton.Come then, find your ball and racket,Pop into your winter jacket,With the lovely bear-skin lining.While the sun is brightly shining,Let us run and play togetherAnd just love the autumn weather."
116,"2018-02-27 21:09:19","Autumn Perspective","Erica Jong","Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,the radio playing to bare walls,picture hooks left strandedin the unsoiled squares where paintings were,and something reminding usthis is like all other moving days;finding the dirty ends of someone else's life,hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,and burned-out matches in the corner;things not preserved, yet never swept awaylike fragments of disturbing dreamswe stumble on all day. . .in ordering our lives, we will discard them,scrub clean the floorboards of this our homelest refuse from the lives we did not leadbecome, in some strange, frightening way, our own.And we have plans that will not tolerateour fears-- a year laid out like roomsin a new house--the dusty wine glassesrinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelvessagging with heavy winter books.Seeing the room always as it will be,we are content to dust and wait.We will return here from the dark and silentstreets, arms full of books and food,anxious as we always are in winter,and looking for the Good Life we have made.I see myself then: tense, solemn,in high-heeled shoes that pinch,not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,but looking back to now and seeinga lazy, sunburned, sandaled girlin a bare room, full of promiseand feeling envious.Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forwardinto the future--as if, when the roomcontains us and all our treasured junkwe will have filled whatever gap it isthat makes us wander, discontentedfrom ourselves.The room will not change:a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paintwon't make much difference;our eyes are ficklebut we remain the same beneath our suntans,pale, frightened,dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,dreaming our dreaming selves.I look forward and see myself looking back."
117,"2018-02-27 21:09:21","Three Pieces on the Smoke of Autumn","Carl Sandburg","SMOKE of autumn is on it all.The streamers loosen and travel.The red west is stopped with a gray haze.They fill the ash trees, they wrap the oaks,They make a long-tailed riderIn the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star.. . .Three muskrats swim west on the Desplaines River. There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west. Around each slippery padding rat, a fan of ripples; in the silence of dusk a faint wash of ripples, the padding of the rats going west, in a dark and shivering river gold. (A newspaper in my pocket says the Germans pierce the Italian line; I have letters from poets and sculptors in Greenwich Village; I have letters from an ambulance man in France and an I. W. W. man in Vladivostok.) I lean on an ash and watch the lights fall, the red ember glow, and three muskrats swim west in a fan of ripples on a sheet of river gold.. . .Better the blue silence and the gray west,The autumn mist on the river,And not any hate and not any love,And not anything at all of the keen and the deep:Only the peace of a dog head on a barn floor,And the new corn shoveled in bushelsAnd the pumpkins brought from the corn rows,Umber lights of the dark,Umber lanterns of the loam dark. Here a dog head dreams.Not any hate, not any love.Not anything but dreams.Brother of dusk and umber."
118,"2018-02-27 21:09:22","An Autumn Evening","Lucy Maud Montgomery","Dark hills against a hollow crocus skyScarfed with its crimson pennons, and below The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lieCradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow And wake among the harps of leafless trees Fantastic runes and mournful melodies. The chilly purple air is threaded throughWith silver from the rising moon afar, And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blueIn the southwest glimmers a great gold star Above the darkening druid glens of fir Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir. And so I wander through the shadows still,And look and listen with a rapt delight, Pausing again and yet again at willTo drink the elusive beauty of the night, Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup, That with divine enchantment is brimmed up."
119,"2018-02-27 21:09:24","By an Autumn Fire","Lucy Maud Montgomery","Now at our casement the wind is shrilling, Poignant and keen And all the great boughs of the pines between It is harping a lone and hungering strain To the eldritch weeping of the rain; And then to the wild, wet valley flying It is seeking, sighing, Something lost in the summer olden. When night was silver and day was golden; But out on the shore the waves are moaning With ancient and never fulfilled desire, And the spirits of all the empty spaces, Of all the dark and haunted places, With the rain and the wind on their death-white faces, Come to the lure of our leaping fire. But we bar them out with this rose-red splendor From our blithe domain, And drown the whimper of wind and rain With undaunted laughter, echoing long, Cheery old tale and gay old song; Ours is the joyance of ripe fruition, Attained ambition. Ours is the treasure of tested loving, Friendship that needs no further proving; No more of springtime hopes, sweet and uncertain,Here we have largess of summer in fee­Pile high the logs till the flame be leaping,At bay the chill of the autumn keeping,While pilgrim-wise, we may go a-reapingIn the fairest meadow of memory!"
120,"2018-02-27 21:09:26",Autumn,"William Morris","Laden Autumn here I standWorn of heart, and weak of hand:Nought but rest seems good to me,Speak the word that sets me free."
121,"2018-02-27 21:09:27",Autumn,"Thomas Hood","I Saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;— Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn. Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun, Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds?—Away, away, On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noonday, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,— The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?— Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity. The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey bees have stored The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have wing'd across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone With the last leaves for a love-rosary, Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drownèd past In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray. O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair: She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care;— There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower,—and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,— Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!"
122,"2018-02-27 21:09:29","A Song of Autumn","Adam Lindsay Gordon","‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad At the falling of the year, When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad, When the boughs are yellow and sere? Where are the old ones that once we had, And when are the new ones near? What shall we do for our garlands glad At the falling of the year?’ ‘Child! can I tell where the garlands go? Can I say where the lost leaves veer On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow, When they drift through the dead-wood drear? Girl! when the garlands of next year glow, You may gather again, my dear— But I go where the last year’s lost leaves go At the falling of the year.’"
123,"2018-02-27 21:09:33","Autumnal Sonnet","William Allingham","Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hold, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes, It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave To walk with memory,--when distant lies Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve."
124,"2018-02-27 21:09:34","Late Autumn","William Allingham","October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. The dignity of woods in rich decay Accords full well with this majestic grief That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day, Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief Only a robin sings from any spray. And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills White mist around the hollows of the hills,Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees, Islanded; but no foolish terror thrillsHis perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease."
125,"2018-02-27 21:09:37","Autumn Song","Sarojini Naidu","Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow, The sunset hangs on a cloud;A golden storm of glittering sheaves,Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves, The wild wind blows in a cloud.Hark to a voice that is calling To my heart in the voice of the wind:My heart is weary and sad and alone,For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, And why should I stay behind?"
126,"2018-02-27 21:09:43","The Autumn","Elizabeth Barrett Browning","Go, sit upon the lofty hill,And turn your eyes around,Where waving woods and waters wildDo hymn an autumn sound.The summer sun is faint on them --The summer flowers depart --Sit still -- as all transform'd to stone,Except your musing heart.How there you sat in summer-time,May yet be in your mind;And how you heard the green woods singBeneath the freshening wind.Though the same wind now blows around,You would its blast recall;For every breath that stirs the trees,Doth cause a leaf to fall.Oh! like that wind, is all the mirthThat flesh and dust impart:We cannot bear its visitings,When change is on the heart.Gay words and jests may make us smile,When Sorrow is asleep;But other things must make us smile,When Sorrow bids us weep!The dearest hands that clasp our hands, --Their presence may be o'er;The dearest voice that meets our ear,That tone may come no more!Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,Which once refresh'd our mind,Shall come -- as, on those sighing woods,The chilling autumn wind.Hear not the wind -- view not the woods;Look out o'er vale and hill-In spring, the sky encircled them --The sky is round them still.Come autumn's scathe -- come winter's cold --Come change -- and human fate!Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,Can ne'er be desolate."
127,"2018-02-27 21:09:46","An Autumn Reverie","William Topaz McGonagall","Alas! Beautiful Summer now hath fled,And the face of Nature doth seem dead, And the leaves are withered, and falling off the trees,By the nipping and chilling autumnal breeze. The pleasures of the little birds are all fled,And with the cold many of them will be found dead,Because the leaves of the trees are scattered in the blast,And makes the feathered creatures feel downcast. Because there are no leaves on the trees to shield them from the stormOn a windy, and rainy, cloudy morn;Which makes their little hearts throb with pain,By the chilling blast and the pitiless rain. But still they are more contented than the children of God,As long as they can pick up a worm from the sod,Or anything they can get to eat,Just, for instance, a stale crust of bread or a grain of wheat. Oh! Think of the little birds in the time of the snow,Also of the little street waifs, that are driven to and fro,And trembling in the cold blast, and chilled to the bone,For the want of food and clothing, and a warm home. Besides think of the sorrows of the wandering poor,That are wandering in the cold blast from door to door;And begging, for Heaven's sake, a crust of bread,And alas! Not knowing where to lay their head. While the rich are well fed and covered from the cold,While the poor are starving, both young and old;Alas! It is the case in this boasted Christian land,Where as the rich are told to be kind to the poor, is God's command. Oh! Think of the working man when he's no work to do,Who's got a wife and family, perhaps four or two,And the father searching for work, and no work can be had,The thought, I'm sure, 'tis enough to drive the poor man mad. Because for his wife and family he must feel,And perhaps the thought thereof will cause him to stealBread for his family, that are starving at home,While the thought thereof makes him sigh heavily and groan. Alas! The pangs of hunger are very hard to hide,And few people can their temper control,Or become reconciled to their fate,Especially when they cannot find anything to eat. Oh! Think of the struggles of the poor to make a living,Because the rich unto them seldom are giving;Wereas they are told he that giveth to the poor lendeth unto the Lord,But alas! they rather incline their money to hoard. Then theres the little news-vendors in the street,Running about perhaps with bare feet;And if the rich chance to see such creatures in the street,In general they make a sudden retreat."
128,"2018-02-27 21:09:47","In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan","Robert Seymour Bridges","In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence, 'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon In melancholy and godlike indolence: When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal prime To fond pretence of immortality, Vieweth all moments from the birth of time, All things whate'er have been or yet shall be. And like the garden, where the year is spent, The ruin of old life is full of yearning, Mingling poetic rapture of lament With flowers and sunshine of spring's sure returning; Only in visions of the white air wan By godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon."
129,"2018-02-27 21:09:48","Autumn Birds","John Clare","The wild duck startles like a sudden thought,And heron slow as if it might be caught.The flopping crows on weary wings go byAnd grey beard jackdaws noising as they fly.The crowds of starnels whizz and hurry by,And darken like a clod the evening sky.The larks like thunder rise and suthy round,Then drop and nestle in the stubble ground.The wild swan hurries hight and noises loudWith white neck peering to the evening clowd.The weary rooks to distant woods are gone.With lengths of tail the magpie winnows onTo neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crowWhile small birds nestle in the edge below."
130,"2018-02-27 21:09:52","As Summer into Autumn slips","Emily Dickinson","As Summer into Autumn slipsAnd yet we sooner say""The Summer"" than ""the Autumn,"" lestWe turn the sun away,And almost count it an AffrontThe presence to concedeOf one however lovely, notThe one that we have loved --So we evade the charge of YearsOn one attempting shyThe Circumvention of the ShaftOf Life's Declivity."
131,"2018-02-27 21:09:56","Autumn Love","Li Ching Chao","Search. Search. Seek. Seek. Cold. Cold. Clear. Clear. Sorrow. Sorrow. Pain. Pain. Hot flashes. Sudden chills. Stabbing pains. Slow agonies. I can find no peace. I drink two cups, then three bowls, Of clear wine until I can’t Stand up against a gust of wind. Wild geese fly over head. They wrench my heart. They were our friends in the old days. Gold chrysanthemums litter The ground, pile up, faded, dead. This season I could not bear To pick them. All alone, Motionless at my window, I watch the gathering shadows. Fine rain sifts through the wu-t’ung trees, And drips, drop by drop, through the dusk. What can I ever do now? How can I drive off this word — Hopelessness?"
132,"2018-02-27 21:09:59","The name -- of it -- is ""Autumn"" --","Emily Dickinson","The name -- of it -- is ""Autumn"" --The hue -- of it -- is Blood --An Artery -- upon the Hill --A Vein -- along the Road --Great Globules -- in the Alleys --And Oh, the Shower of Stain --When Winds -- upset the Basin --And spill the Scarlet Rain --It sprinkles Bonnets -- far below --It gathers ruddy Pools --Then -- eddies like a Rose -- away --Upon Vermilion Wheels --"
133,"2018-02-27 21:10:02","Elegy IX: The Autumnal","John Donne","No spring nor summer Beauty hath such graceAs I have seen in one autumnall face.Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,This doth but counsel, yet you cannot 'scape.If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame,Affection here takes Reverence's name.Were her first years the Golden Age; that's true,But now she's gold oft tried, and ever new.That was her torrid and inflaming time,This is her tolerable Tropique clime.Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,He in a fever wishes pestilence.Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,They were Love's graves; for else he is no where.Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sitVowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev'ry where,In progress, yet his standing house is here.Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;Where no voluptuousness, yet all delightIn all her words, unto all hearers fit,You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.This is Love's timber, youth his under-wood;There he, as wine in June enrages blood,Which then comes seasonabliest, when our tasteAnd appetite to other things is past.Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,Was loved for age, none being so large as she,Or else because, being young, nature did blessHer youth with age's glory, Barrenness.If we love things long sought, Age is a thingWhich we are fifty years in compassing;If transitory things, which soon decay,Age must be loveliest at the latest day.But name not winter-faces, whose skin's slack;Lank, as an unthrift's purse; but a soul's sack;Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,To vex their souls at Resurrection;Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,For these, not ancient, but antique be.I hate extremes; yet I had rather stayWith tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.Since such love's natural lation is, may stillMy love descend, and journey down the hill,Not panting after growing beauties so,I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go."
134,"2018-02-27 21:10:03","The Burglar Of Babylon","Elizabeth Bishop","On the fair green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain:The poor who come to Rio And can't go home again.On the hills a million people, A million sparrows, nest,Like a confused migration That's had to light and rest,Building its nests, or houses, Out of nothing at all, or air.You'd think a breath would end them, They perch so lightly there.But they cling and spread like lichen, And people come and come.There's one hill called the Chicken, And one called Catacomb;There's the hill of Kerosene, And the hill of Skeleton,The hill of Astonishment, And the hill of Babylon.Micuçú was a burglar and killer, An enemy of society.He had escaped three times From the worst penitentiary.They don't know how many he murdered (Though they say he never raped),And he wounded two policemen This last time he escaped.They said, ""He'll go to his auntie, Who raised him like a son.She has a little drink shop On the hill of Babylon.""He did go straight to his auntie, And he drank a final beer.He told her, ""The soldiers are coming, And I've got to disappear.""""Ninety years they gave me. Who wants to live that long?I'll settle for ninety hours, On the hill of Babylon.""Don't tell anyone you saw me. I'll run as long as I can.You were good to me, and I love you, But I'm a doomed man.""Going out, he met a mulata Carrying water on her head.""If you say you saw me, daughter, You're as good as dead.""There are caves up there, and hideouts, And an old fort, falling down.They used to watch for Frenchmen From the hill of Babylon.Below him was the ocean. It reached far up the sky,Flat as a wall, and on it Were freighters passing by,Or climbing the wall, and climbing Till each looked like a fly,And then fell over and vanished; And he knew he was going to die.He could hear the goats baa-baa-ing. He could hear the babies cry;Fluttering kites strained upward; And he knew he was going to die.A buzzard flapped so near him He could see its naked neck.He waved his arms and shouted, ""Not yet, my son, not yet!""An Army helicopter Came nosing around and in.He could see two men inside it, but they never spotted him.The soldiers were all over, On all sides of the hill,And right against the skyline A row of them, small and still.Children peeked out of windows, And men in the drink shop swore,And spat a little cachaça At the light cracks in the floor.But the soldiers were nervous, even with tommy guns in hand,And one of them, in a panic, Shot the officer in command.He hit him in three places; The other shots went wild.The soldier had hysterics And sobbed like a little child.The dying man said, ""Finish The job we came here for.""he committed his soul to God And his sons to the Governor.They ran and got a priest, And he died in hope of Heaven--A man from Pernambuco, The youngest of eleven.They wanted to stop the search, but the Army said, ""No, go on,""So the soldiers swarmed again Up the hill of Babylon.Rich people in apartments Watched through binocularsAs long as the daylight lasted. And all night, under the stars,Micuçú hid in the grasses Or sat in a little tree,Listening for sounds, and staring At the lighthouse out at sea.And the lighthouse stared back at him, til finally it was dawn.He was soaked with dew, and hungry, On the hill of Babylon.The yellow sun was ugly, Like a raw egg on a plate--Slick from the sea. He cursed it, For he knew it sealed his fate.He saw the long white beaches And people going to swim,With towels and beach umbrellas, But the soldiers were after him.Far, far below, the people Were little colored spots,And the heads of those in swimming Were floating coconuts.He heard the peanut vendor Go peep-peep on his whistle,And the man that sells umbrellas Swinging his watchman's rattle.Women with market baskets Stood on the corners and talked,Then went on their way to market, Gazing up as they walked.The rich with their binoculars Were back again, and manyWere standing on the rooftops, Among TV antennae.It was early, eight or eight-thirty. He saw a soldier climb,Looking right at him. He fired, And missed for the last time.He could hear the soldier panting, Though he never got very near.Micuçú dashed for shelter. But he got it, behind the ear.He heard the babies crying Far, far away in his head,And the mongrels barking and barking. Then Micuçú was dead.He had a Taurus revolver, And just the clothes he had on,With two contos in the pockets, On the hill of Babylon.The police and the populace Heaved a sigh of relief,But behind the counter his auntie Wiped her eyes in grief.""We have always been respected. My shop is honest and clean.I loved him, but from a baby Micuçú was mean.""We have always been respected. His sister has a job.Both of us gave him money. Why did he have to rob?""I raised him to be honest, Even here, in Babylon slum.""The customers had another, Looking serious and glum.But one of them said to another, When he got outside the door,""He wasn't much of a burglar, He got caught six times--or more.""This morning the little soldiers are on Babylon hill again;Their gun barrels and helmets Shine in a gentle rain.Micuçú is buried already. They're after another two,But they say they aren't as dangerous As the poor Micuçú.On the green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain:The poor who come to Rio And can't go home again.There's the hill of Kerosene, And the hill of the Skeleton,The hill of Astonishment, And the hill of Babylon."
135,"2018-02-27 21:10:06","Baby Face","Carl Sandburg","WHITE MOON comes in on a baby face.The shafts across her bed are flimmering. Out on the land White Moon shines,Shines and glimmers against gnarled shadows,All silver to slow twisted shadowsFalling across the long road that runs from the house. Keep a little of your beautyAnd some of your flimmering silverFor her by the window to-nightWhere you come in, White Moon."
136,"2018-02-27 21:10:07","Baby Vamps","Carl Sandburg","BABY vamps, is it harder work than it used to be?Are the new soda parlors worse than the old time saloons? Baby vamps, do you have jobs in the day time or is this all you do? do you come out only at night?In the winter at the skating rinks, in the summer at the roller coaster parks,Wherever figure eights are carved, by skates in winter, by roller coasters in summer,Wherever the whirligigs are going and chicken spanish and hot dog are sold,There you come, giggling baby vamp, there you come with your blue baby eyes, saying: Take me along."
137,"2018-02-27 21:10:08","Baby's Way","Rabindranath Tagore","If baby only wanted to, he could fly up to heaven this moment.It is not for nothing that he does not leave us.He loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, and cannot everbear to lose sight of her.Baby know all manner of wise words, though few on earth canunderstand their meaning.It is not for nothing that he never wants to speak.The one thing he wants is to learn mother's words frommother's lips. That is why he looks so innocent.Baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet he came like a beggaron to this earth.It is not for nothing he came in such a disguise.This dear little naked mendicant pretends to be utterlyhelpless, so that he may beg for mother's wealth of love.Baby was so free from every tie in the land of the tinycrescent moon.It was not for nothing he gave up his freedom.He knows that there is room for endless joy in mother's littlecorner of a heart, and it is sweeter far than liberty to be caughtand pressed in her dear arms.Baby never knew how to cry. He dwelt in the land of perfectbliss.It is not for nothing he has chosen to shed tears.Though with the smile of his dear face he draws mother'syearning heart to him, yet his little cries over tiny troublesweave the double bond of pity and love."
138,"2018-02-27 21:10:11","Baby's World","Rabindranath Tagore","I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's veryown world.I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoopsdown to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they nevercould move, come creeping to his window with their stories and withtrays crowded with bright toys.I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,and out beyond all bounds;Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdomsof kings of no history;Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truthsets Fact free from its fetters."
139,"2018-02-27 21:10:15",Superior,"Rabindranath Tagore","Mother, your baby is silly! She is so absurdly childish!She does not know the difference between the lights in thestreets and the stars.When we play at eating with pebbles, she thinks they are realfood, and tries to put them into her mouth.When I open a book before her and ask her to learn her a, b,c, she tears the leaves with her hands and roars for joy atnothing; this is your baby's way of doing her lesson.When I shake my head at her in anger and scold her and callher naughty, she laughs and thinks it great fun.Everybody knows that father is away, but if in play I callaloud ""Father,"" she looks about her in excitement and thinks thatfather is near.When I hold my class with the donkeys that our washer manbrings to carry away the clothes and I warn her that I am theschoolmaster, she will scream for no reason and call me dada.Your baby wants to catch the moon. She is so funny; she callsGanesh Ganush.Mother, your baby is silly! She is so absurdly childish!"
140,"2018-02-27 21:10:17","The End","Rabindranath Tagore","It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch outyour arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, ""Baby is nothere!""-mother, I am going.I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you andI shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you andkiss you again.In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves youwill hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash withthe lightning through the open window into your room.If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into thenight, I shall sing to you from the stars, ""Sleep, mother, sleep.""One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, andlie upon your bosom while you sleep.I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of youreyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when youwake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shallflit out into the darkness.When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' childrencome and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of theflute and throb in your heart all day.Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask,""Whereis our baby, sister?"" Mother, you will tell her softly, ""He is inthe pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul."""
141,"2018-02-27 21:10:22","The Source","Rabindranath Tagore","The sleep that flits on baby's eyes-does anybody know from whereit comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where,in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit withglow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. From there itcomes to kiss baby's eyes.The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps-doesanybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a youngpale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumncloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dewwashed morning-the smile that flickers on baby's lips when hesleeps.The sweet, soft freshness hat blooms on baby's limbs-doesanybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother wasa young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silentmystery of love-the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed onbaby's limbs."
142,"2018-02-27 21:10:23","The Triumph Of Woman","Robert Southey","Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tostTo reach secure at length his native coast,Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,The night-blast wildly howling round his head,Known all the woes of want, and felt the stormOf the bleak winter parch his shivering form;The journey o'er and every peril pastBeholds his little cottage-home at last,And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,Feels his full eyes with transport overflow:So from the scene where Death and Anguish reign,And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praiseAvail'd again Jerusalem to raise,Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,And freed the nation best-belov'd of God.Darius gives the feast: to Persia's court,Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort,Attending Satraps swell the Prince's pride,And vanquish'd Monarchs grace their Conqueror's side.No more the Warrior wears the garb of war,Sharps the strong steel, or mounts the scythed car;No more Judaea's sons dejected go,And hang the head and heave the sigh of woe.From Persia's rugged hills descend the train.From where Orontes foams along the plain,From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.Thy daughters Babylon to grace the feastWeave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair.They tinge the cheek which Nature form'd so fair,Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.Exalted on the Monarch's golden throneIn royal state the fair Apame shone;Her form of majesty, her eyes of fireChill with respect, or kindle with desire.The admiring multitude her charms adore,And own her worthy of the crown she wore.Now on his couch reclin'd Darius lay,Tir'd with the toilsome pleasures of the day;Without Judaea's watchful sons awaitTo guard the sleeping pageant of the state.Three youths were these of Judah's royal race,Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace,To each the form of symmetry she gave,And haughty Genius curs'd each favorite slave;These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept,Serv'd as he spake, and guarded whilst he slept.Yet oft for Salem's hallowed towers laid lowThe sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow;And when the dull and wearying round of PowerAllowed Zorobabel one vacant hour,He lov'd on Babylon's high wall to roam,And stretch the gaze towards his distant home,Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclin'dHear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.As now the perfum'd lamps stream wide their light,And social converse chears the livelong night,Thus spake Zorobabel, ""too long in vain""For Sion desolate her sons complain;""In anguish worn the joyless years lag slow,""And these proud conquerors mock their captive's woe.""Whilst Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state""A brighter prospect chear'd our exil'd fate,""Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,""And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.""Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,""As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,""And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,""Soon hid by clouds that dim the scene again.""Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign""We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.""Now when Darius, chief of mild command,""Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,""Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,""And sternly silent shun to seek relief?""What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng""Our harps should echo to the chearful song?""Fair is the occasion,"" thus the one replied,""And now let all our tuneful skill be tried.""Whilst the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl,""And wine's strong fumes inspire the madden'd soul,""Where all around is merriment, be mine""To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine.""And whilst"" his friend replied in state alone""Lord of the earth Darius fills the throne,""Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing,""My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King.""To them Zorobabel, on themes like these""Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please;""To Wine superior or to Power's strong arms,""Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms.""To him victorious in the rival lays""Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;""The purple robe his honor'd frame shall fold,""The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;""A golden couch support his bed of rest,""The chain of honor grace his favor'd breast;""His the soft turban, his the car's array""O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way;""And for his wisdom seated on the throne,""For the KING'S COUSIN shall the Bard be known.""Intent they meditate the future lay,And watch impatient for the dawn of day.The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute,The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute;To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort,Swarm thro' the gates, and fill the festive court.High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride,The fair Apame grac'd the Sovereign's side;And now she smil'd, and now with mimic frownPlaced on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.In transport o'er her faultless form he bends,Loves every look, and every act commends.And now Darius bids the herald callJudaea's Bard to grace the thronging hall.Hush'd is each sound--the attending crowd are mute,The Hebrew lightly strikes the chearful lute:When the Traveller on his way,Who has toil'd the livelong day,Feels around on every sideThe chilly mists of eventide,Fatigued and faint his wearied mindRecurs to all he leaves behind;He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,The evening hour of social mirth,And her who at departing dayWeeps for her husband far away.Oh give to him the flowing bowl,Bid it renovate his soul;Then shall sorrow sink to sleep,And he who wept, no more shall weep;For his care-clouded brow shall clear,And his glad eye shall sparkle thro' the tear.When the poor man heart-opprestBetakes him to his evening rest,And worn with labour thinks in sorrowOf the labor of to-morrow;When sadly musing on his lotHe hies him to his joyless cot,And loathes to meet his children there,The rivals for his scanty fare:Oh give to him the flowing bowl,Bid it renovate his soul;The generous juice with magic powerShall cheat with happiness the hour,And with each warm affection fillThe heart by want and wretchedness made chill.When, at the dim close of day,The Captive loves alone to strayAlong the haunts recluse and rudeOf sorrow and of solitude;When he sits with moveless eyeTo mark the lingering radiance die,And lets distemper'd Fancy roamAmid the ruins of his home,--Oh give to him the flowing bowl,Bid it renovate his soul;The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,And lull to rest his wakeful woe,And Joy shall bless the evening hour,And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.When the wearying cares of stateOppress the Monarch with their weight,When from his pomp retir'd aloneHe feels the duties of the throne,Feels that the multitude belowDepend on him for weal or woe;When his powerful will may blessA realm with peace and happiness,Or with desolating breathBreathe ruin round, and woe, and death:Oh give to him the flowing bowl,Bid it humanize his soul;He shall not feel the empire's weight,He shall not feel the cares of state,The bowl shall each dark thought beguile,And Nations live and prosper from his smile.Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd the song;Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng;Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid,On every cheek a smile applauding play'd;The rival Bard advanced, he struck the string,And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.Why should the wearying cares of stateOppress the Monarch with their weight?Alike to him if Peace shall blessThe multitude with happiness;Alike to him if frenzied WarCareers triumphant on the embattled plain,And rolling on o'er myriads slain,With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car.What tho' the tempest rage! no soundOf the deep thunder shakes his distant throne,And the red flash that spreads destruction round,Reflects a glorious splendour on the Crown.Where is the Man who with ennobling prideBeholds not his own nature? where is heWho but with deep amazement awe alliedMust muse the mysteries of the human mind,The miniature of Deity.For Man the vernal clouds descendingShower down their fertilizing rain,For Man the ripen'd harvest bendingWaves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain.He spreads the sail on high,The rude gale wafts him o'er the main;For him the winds of Heaven subservient blow,Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow,He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!Where is the King who with elating prideSees not this Man--this godlike Man his Slave?Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side,Alike the wife, alike the braveWith timid step and pale, advance,And tremble at the royal glance;Suspended millions watch his breathWhose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.Why goes the Peasant from that little cot,Where PEACE and LOVE have blest his humble life?In vain his agonizing wifeWith tears bedews her husband's face,And clasps him in a long and last embrace;In vain his children round his bosom creep,And weep to see their mother weep,Fettering their father with their little arms;What are to him the wars alarms?What are to him the distant foes?He at the earliest dawn of dayTo daily labor went his way;And when he saw the sun decline,He sat in peace beneath his vine:--The king commands, the peasant goes,From all he lov'd on earth he flies,And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.What tho' yon City's castled wallCasts o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade?What tho' their Priests in earnest terror callOn all their host of Gods to aid?Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower;In vain her gallant youths exposeTheir breasts, a bulwark, to the foes.In vain at that tremendous hour,Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms,Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid.By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd roundTheir moss-grown towers shall spread the desart ground.Low shall the mouldering palace lie,Amid the princely halls the grass wave high,And thro' the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky.Gay o'er the embattled plainMoves yonder warrior train,Their banners wanton on the morning gale!Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray,Their glittering helmets flash a brighter day,The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale:Far reaches as the aching eye can strainThe splendid horror of their wide array.Ah! not in vain expectant, o'erTheir glorious pomp the Vultures soar!Amid the Conqueror's palace highShall sound the song of victory:Long after journeying o'er the plainThe Traveller shall with startled eyeSee their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky.Lord of the Earth! we will not raiseThe Temple to thy bounded praise.For thee no victim need expire,For thee no altar blaze with hallowed fire!The burning city flames for thee--Thine altar is the field of victory!Thy sacred Majesty to blessMan a self-offer'd victim freely flies;To thee he sacrifices Happiness,And Peace, and Love's endearing ties,To thee a Slave he lives, to thee a Slave he dies.Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd to sing;The shout rush'd forth--for ever live the King!Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decreePronounc'd Achaia once again was free;Assembled Greece enrapt with fond beliefHeard the false boon, and bless'd the villain Chief;Each breast with Freedom's holy ardor glows,From every voice the cry of rapture rose;Their thundering clamors burst the astonish'd sky,And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die.Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring,And the high hall re-echoed--live the King!The Mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord,The assembled Satraps envied and ador'd,Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes,And his pleas'd pride already doom'd the prize.Silent they saw Zorobabel advance:Quick on Apame shot his timid glance,With downward eye he paus'd a moment mute,And with light finger touch'd the softer lute.Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause,And bent her head and sweetly smil'd applause.Why is the Warrior's cheek so red?Why downward droops his musing head?Why that slow step, that faint advance,That keen yet quick-retreating glance?That crested head in war tower'd high,No backward glance disgrac'd that eye,No flushing fear that cheek o'erspreadWhen stern he strode o'er heaps of dead;Strange tumult now his bosom moves--The Warrior fears because he loves.Why does the Youth delight to roveAmid the dark and lonely grove?Why in the throng where all are gay,His wandering eye with meaning fraught,Sits he alone in silent thought?Silent he sits; for far awayHis passion'd soul delights to stray;Recluse he roves and strives to shunAll human-kind because he loves but One!Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest;But not because the sparkling bowlTo rapture lifts thy waken'd soulBut not because of Power possest,Not that the Nations dread thy nod,And Princes reverence thee their earthly God,Even on a Monarch's solitudeCare the black Spectre will intrude,The bowl brief pleasure can bestow,The Purple cannot shield from Woe.But King of Persia thou art blest,For Heaven who rais'd thee thus the world aboveHas made thee happy in Apame's love!Oh! I have seen his fond looks traceEach angel feature of her face,Rove o'er her form with eager eye,And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh.Lo! from his brow with mimic frown,Apame takes the sacred crown;Her faultless form, her lovely faceAdd to the diadem new graceAnd subject to a Woman's lawsDarius sees and smiles applause!He ceas'd, and silent still remain'd the throngWhilst rapt attention own'd the power of song.Then loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blowFrom ev'ry voice the thundering plaudits flow;Darius smil'd, Apame's sparkling eyesGlanc'd on the King, and Woman won the prize.Now silent sat the expectant crowd, aloneThe victor Hebrew gaz'd not on the throne;With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows,With statelier stature, loftier now he rose;Heavenward he gaz'd, regardless of the throng,And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song.Ancient of Days! Eternal Truth! one hymnOne holier strain the Bard shall raise to thee,Thee Powerful! Thee Benevolent! Thee Just!Friend! Father! All in All! the Vines rich blood,The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering charms,--These shall we praise alone? Oh ye who sitBeneath your vine, and quaff at evening hourThe healthful bowl, remember him whose dews,Whose rains, whose sun, matur'd the growing fruit,Creator and Preserver! Reverence Him,O thou who from thy throne dispensest lifeAnd death, for He has delegated power.And thou shalt one day at the throne of GodRender most strict account! O ye who gazeEnrapt on Beauty's fascinating form,Gaze on with love, and loving Beauty, learnTo shun abhorrent all the mental eyeBeholds deform'd and foul; for so shall LoveClimb to the Source of Virtue. God of Truth!All-Just! All-Mighty! I should ill deserveThy noblest gift, the gift divine of song,If, so content with ear-deep melodiesTo please all profitless, I did not pourSeverer strains; of Truth--eternal Truth,Unchanging Justice, universal Love.Such strains awake the soul to loftiest thoughts,Such strains the Blessed Spirits of the GoodWaft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven.The dying notes still murmur'd on the string,When from his throne arose the raptur'd King.About to speak he stood, and wav'd his hand,And all expectant sat the obedient band.Then just and gen'rous, thus the Monarch cries,""Be thine Zorobabel the well earned prize.""The purple robe of state thy form shall fold,""The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold;""The golden couch, the car, and honor'd chain,""Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain,""And rais'd supreme the ennobled race among""Be call'd MY COUSIN for the victor song.""Nor these alone the victor song shall bless,""Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt, possess.""""Fall'n is Jerusalem!"" the Hebrew cries.And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes,""Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod,""Polluted lies the temple of our God,""Far in a foreign land her sons remain,""Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain:""In fruitless woe they wear the wearying years,""And steep the bread of bitterness in tears.""O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men,""Restore us to those ruin'd walls again!""Allow our race to rear that sacred dome,""To live in liberty, and die at Home.""So spake Zorobabel--thus Woman's praiseAvail'd again Jerusalem to raise,Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,And freed the Nation best belov'd of God."
143,"2018-02-27 21:10:26","Portrait of a Baby","Stephen Vincent Benet","He lay within a warm, soft world Of motion. Colors bloomed and fled, Maroon and turquoise, saffron, red, Wave upon wave that broke and whirled To vanish in the grey-green gloom, Perspectiveless and shadowy. A bulging world that had no walls, A flowing world, most like the sea, Compassing all infinity Within a shapeless, ebbing room, An endless tide that swells and falls . . . He slept and woke and slept again. As a veil drops Time dropped away; Space grew a toy for children's play, Sleep bolted fast the gates of Sense -- He lay in naked impotence; Like a drenched moth that creeps and crawls Heavily up brown, light-baked walls, To fall in wreck, her task undone, Yet somehow striving toward the sun. So, as he slept, his hands clenched tighter, Shut in the old way of the fighter, His feet curled up to grip the ground, His muscles tautened for a bound; And though he felt, and felt alone, Strange brightness stirred him to the bone, Cravings to rise -- till deeper sleep Buried the hope, the call, the leap; A wind puffed out his mind's faint spark. He was absorbed into the dark. He woke again and felt a surge Within him, a mysterious urge That grew one hungry flame of passion; The whole world altered shape and fashion. Deceived, befooled, bereft and torn, He scourged the heavens with his scorn, Lifting a bitter voice to cry Against the eternal treachery -- Till, suddenly, he found the breast, And ceased, and all things were at rest, The earth grew one warm languid sea And he a wave. Joy, tingling, crept Throughout him. He was quenched and slept. So, while the moon made broad her ring, He slept and cried and was a king. So, worthily, he acted o'er The endless miracle once more. Facing immense adventures daily, He strove still onward, weeping, gaily, Conquered or fled from them, but grew As soil-starved, rough pine-saplings do. Till, one day, crawling seemed suspect. He gripped the air and stood erect And splendid. With immortal rage He entered on man's heritage!"
144,"2018-02-27 21:10:29","Baby Charley.","Sidney Lanier","He's fast asleep. See how, O Wife,Night's finger on the lip of lifeBids whist the tongue, so prattle-rife,Of busy Baby Charley.One arm stretched backward round his head,Five little toes from out the bedJust showing, like five rosebuds red,-- So slumbers Baby Charley.Heaven-lights, I know, are beaming throughThose lucent eyelids, veined with blue,That shut away from mortal viewLarge eyes of Baby Charley.O sweet Sleep-Angel, throned nowOn the round glory of his brow,Wave thy wing and waft my vowBreathed over Baby Charley.I vow that my heart, when death is nigh,Shall never shiver with a sighFor act of hand or tongue or eyeThat wronged my Baby Charley!"
145,"2018-02-27 21:10:34",Lorraine,"Charles Kingsley","“ARE you ready for your steeplechase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree. You’re booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee, You’re booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see, To keep him straight, and keep him first, and win the run for me.” Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree. She clasp’d her newborn 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 kill’d a boy, he ’s kill’d a man, and why must he kill me?” “Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree, Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coulterlee, And land him safe across the brook, and win the blank for me, It ’s you may keep your baby, for you ’ll get no keep from 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 kill’d across a fence at last for all the world to see!” She master’d young Vindictive—O, the gallant lass was she!And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be; But he kill’d her at the brook against a pollard willow tree; Oh! he kill’d her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see, And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorree."
146,"2018-02-27 21:10:36","Part 5 of Trout Fishing in America","Richard Brautigan","WORSEWICKWorsewick Hot Springs was nothing fancy. Somebody put someboards across the creek. That was it. The boards dammed up the creek enough to form a hugebathtub there, and the creek flowed over the top of the boards,invited like a postcard to the ocean a thousand miles away.As I said Worsewick was nothing fancy, not like theplaces where the swells go. There were no buildings around.We saw an old shoe lying by the tub. The hot springs came down off a hill and where they flowedthere was a bright orange scum through the sagebrush. Thehot springs flowed into the creek right there at the tub andthat' s where it was nice. We parked our car on the dirt road and went down and tookoff our clothes, then we took off the baby's clothes, and thedeerflies had at us until we got into the water, and then theystopped. There was a green slime growing around the edges of thetub and there were dozens of dead fish floating in our bath.Their bodies had been turned white by death, like frost oniron doors. Their eyes were large and stiff. The fish had made the mistake of going down the creek toofar and ending up in hot water, singing, ""When you lose your money, learn to lose."" We played and relaxed in the water. The green slime andthe dead fish played and relaxed with us and flowed out overus and entwined themselves about us. Splashing around in that hot water with my woman, I began to get ideas, as they say. After a while I placed my body in such a position in the water that the baby could not see my hard-on. I did this by going deeper and deeper in the water, like adinosaur, and letting the green slime and dead fish cover meover. My woman took the baby out of the water and gave her abottle and put her back in the car. The baby was tired. It wasreally time for her to take a nap. My woman took a blanket out of the car and covered up thewindows that faced the hot springs. She put the blanket ontopof the car and then lay rocks on the blanket to hold it in place.I remember her standing there by the car. Then she came back to the water, and the deerflies wereat her, and then it was my turn. After a while she said, ""Idon't have my diaphragm with me and besides it wouldn'twork in the water, anyway. I think it's a good idea if youdon't come inside me. What do you think?"" I thought this over and said all right. I didn't want anymore kids for a long time. The green slime and dead fishwere all about our bodies. I remember a dead fish floated under her neck. I waitedfor it to come up on the other side, and it came up on theother side. Worsewick was nothing fancy. Then I came, and just cleared her in a split secondlikean airplane in the movies, pulling out of a nosedive and sail-ing over the roof of a school. My sperm came out into the water, unaccustomed to thelight, and instantly it became a misty, stringy kind of thingand swirled out like a falling star, and I saw a dead fishcomeforward and float into my sperm, bending it in the middle.His eyes were stiff like iron. THE SHIPPING OF TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA SHORTY TO NELSON ALGRENTrout Fishing in America Shorty appeared suddenly lastautumn in San Francisco, staggering around in a magnificentchrome-plated steel wheelchair. He was a legless, screaming middle-aged wine. He descended upon North Beach like a chapter from theOld Testament. He was the reason birds migrate in theautumn. They have to. He was the cold turning of the earth;the bad wind that blows off sugar. He would stop children on the street and say to them, ""Iain't got no legs. The trout chopped my legs off in FortLauderdale. You kids got legs. The trout didn't chop yourlegs off. Wheel me into that store over there."" The kids, frightened and embarrassed, would wheel TroutFishing in America Shorty into the store. It would always bea store that sold sweet wine, and he would buy a bottle ofwine and then he'd have the kids wheel him back out onto thestreet, and he would open the wine and start drinking thereon the street just like he was Winston Churchill. After a while the children would run and hide when theysaw Trout Fishing in America Shorty coming. ""I pushed him last week, "" ""I pushed him yesterday, "" ""Quick, let's hide behind these garbage cans."" And they would hide behind the garbage cans while TroutFishing in America Shorty staggered by in his wheelchair.The kids would hold their breath until he was gone. Trout Fishing in America Shorty used to go down toL'Italia, the Italian newspaper in North Beach at Stocktonand Green Streets. Old Italians gather in front of the news-paper in the afternoon and just stand there, leaning upagainst the building, talking and dying in the sun. Trout Fishing in America Shorty used to wheel into themiddle of them as if they were a bunch of pigeons, bottle ofwine in hand, and begin shouting obscenities in fake Italian.Tra-la-la-la-la-la-Spa-ghet-tiii ! I remember Trout Fishing in America Shorty passed outin Washington Square, right in front of the Benjamin Frank-lin statue. He had fallen face first out of his wheelchair andjust lay there without moving. Snoring loudly. Above him were the metal works of Benjamin Franklinlike a clock, hat in hand. Trout Fishing in America Shorty lay there below, hisface spread out like a fan in the grass. A friend and I got to talking about Trout Fishing in America Shorty one afternoon. We decided the best thing to do witl:him was to pack him in a big shipping crate with a couple ofcases of sweet wine and send him to Nelson Algren. Nelson Algren is always writing about Railroad Shorty, ahero of the Neon Wilderness (the reason for ""The Face onthe Barroom Floor"") and the destroyer of Dove Linkhorn inA Walk on the Wild Side. We thought that Nelson Algren would make the perfectcustodian for Trout Fishing in America Shorty. Maybe amuseum might be started. Trout Fishing in America Shortycould be the first piece in an important collection. We would nail him up in a packing crate with a big labelon it. Contents: Trout Fishing in America Shorty Occupation: WineAddress:C/O Nelson AlgrenChicago And there would be stickers all over the crate, saying:""GLASS/HANDLE WITH CARE/SPECIAL HANDLING/GLASS/DON'T SPILL/THIS SIDE UP/HANDLE THIS WINO LIKE HEWAS AN ANGEL"" And Trout Fishing in America Shorty, grumbling, pukingand cursing in his crate would travel across America, fromSan Francisco to Chicago. And Trout Fishing in America Shorty, wondering what itwas all about, would travel on, shouting, ""Where in the hellam I? I can't see to open this bottle ! Who turned out thelights? Fuck this motel! I have to take a piss ! Where's mykey ?"" It was a good idea. A few days after we made our plans for Trout Fishing inAmerica Shorty, a heavy rain was pouring down upon SanFrancisco. The rain turned the streets inward, likedrowned lungs, upon themselves and I was hurrying to work,meeting swollen gutters at the intersections. I saw Trout Fishing in America Shorty passed out in thefront window of a Filipino laundromat. He was sitting inhis wheelchair with closed eyes staring out the window. There was a tranquil expression on his face. He almostlooked human. He had probably fallen asleep while he washaving his brains washed in one of the machines. Weeks passed and we never got around to shipping TroutFishing in America Shorty away to Nelson Algren. We keptputting it off. One thing and another. Then we lost our gold-en opportunity because Trout Fishing in America Shorty dis-appeared a little while after that. They probably swept him up one morning and put him injail to punish him, the evilfart, or they put him in a nut-house to dry him out a little. Maybe Trout Fishing in America Shorty just pedaled downto San Jose in his wheelchair, rattling along the freeway ata quarter of a mile an hour. I don't know what happened to him. But if he comes backto San Francisco someday and dies, I have an idea. Trout Fishing in America Shorty should be buried rightbeside the Benjamin Franklin statue in Washington Square.We should anchor his wheelchair to a huge gray stone andwrite upon the stone: Trout Fishing in America Shorty 20 cent Wash 10 cent Dry Forever THE MAYOR OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURYLondon. On December 1, 1887; July 7, August 8, September30, one day in the month of October and on the 9th of Novem-ber, 1888; on the Ist of June, the 17th of July and the IOthof September 1889 The disguise was perfect. Nobody ever saw him, except, of course, the victims.They saw him. Who would have expected? He wore a costume of trout fishing in America. He woremountains on his elbows and bluejays on the collar of hisshirt. Deep water flowed through the lilies that were entwinedabout his shoelaces. A bullfrog kept croaking in his watchpocket and the air was filled with the sweet smell of ripeblackberry bushes. He wore trout fishing in America as a costume to hidehis own appearance from the world while he performed hisdeeds of murder in the night.Who would have expected? Nobody ! Scotland Yard? (Pouf !) They were always a hundred miles away, wearing halibut-stalker hats, looking under the dust. Nobody ever found out. 0, now he's the Mayor of the Twentieth Century ! A razor,a knife and a ukelele are his favorite instruments. Of course, it would have to be a ukelele. Nobody elsewould have thought of it, pulled like a plow through the intest-ines.ON PARADISE""Speaking of evacuations, your missive, while complete inother regards, skirted the subject, though you did deal brief-ly with rural micturition procedure. I consider this a grossoversight on your part, as I'm certain you're well aware ofmy unending fascination with camp-out crapping. Pleaserush details in your next effort. Slit-trench, pith helmet,slingshot, biffy and if so number of holes and proximity ofkeester to vermin and deposits of prior users."" --From a Letter by a Friend Sheep. Everything smelled of sheep on Paradise Creek,but there were no sheep in sight. I fished down from theranger station where there was a huge monument to the Civi-lian Conservation Corps. It was a twelve-foot high marble statue of a young manwalking out on a cold morning to a crapper that had the das-sic half-moon cut above the door. The 1930s will never come again, but his shoes werewet with dew. They'll stay that way in marble. I went off into the marsh. There the creek was soft andspread out in the grass like a beer belly. The fishing wasdifficult. Summer ducks were jumping up into flight. Theywere big mallards with their Rainier Ale-like offspring. I believe I saw a woodcock. He had a long bill like puttinga fire hydrant into a pencil sharpener, then pasting it ontoa bird and letting the bird fly away in front of me with thisthing on its face for no other purpose than to amaze me. I worked my way slowly out of the marsh until the creekagain became a muscular thing, the strongest ParadiseCreek in the world. I was then close enough to see the sheep.There were hundreds of them. Everything smelled of sheep. The dandelions were sudden-ly more sheep than flower, each petal reflecting wool andthe sound of a bell ringing off the yellow. But the thing thatsmelled the most like sheep, was the very sun itself. Whenthe sun went behind a cloud, the smell of the sheep decreasedlike standing on some old guy's hearing aid, and when thesun came back again, the smell of the sheep was loud, likea clap of thunder inside a cup of coffee. That afternoon the sheep crossed the creek in front ofmy hook. They were so close that their shadows fell acrossmy bait. I practically caught trout up their assholes. THE CABINET OFDOCTORCALIGARIOnce water bugs were my field. I remember that childhoodspring when I studied the winter-long mud puddles of thePacific Northwest. I had a fellowship. My books were a pair of Sears Roebuck boots, ones withgreen rubber pages. Most of my classrooms were close tothe shore. That's where the important things were happen-ing and that's where the good things were happening. Sometimes as experiments I laid boards out into the mudpuddles, so I could look into the deeper water but it was notnearly as good as the water in close to the shore. The water bugs were so small I practically had to lay myvision like a drowned orange on the mud puddle. There is aromance about fruit floating outside on the water, aboutapples and pears in rivers and lakes. For the first minuteor so, I saw nothing, and then slowly the water bugs cameinto being. I saw a black one with big teeth chasing a white one witha bag of newspapers slung over its shoulder, two white onesplaying cards near the window, a fourth white one staringback with a harmonica in its mouth. I was a scholar until the mud puddles went dry and then Ipicked cherries for two-and-a-half cents a pound in an oldorchard that was beside a long, hot dusty road. The cherry boss was a middle-aged woman who was a realOkie. Wearing a pair of goofy overalls, her name was RebelSmith, and she'd been a friend of ""Pretty Boy"" Floyd's downin Oklahoma. ""I remember one afternoon'Pretty Boy' camedriving up in his car. I ran out onto the front porch. "" Rebel Smith was always smoking cigarettes and showingpeople how to pick cherries and assigning them to trees andwriting down everything in a little book she carried in hershirt pocket. She smoked just half a cigarette and then threwthe other half on the ground. For the first few days of the picking, I was always seeingher half-smoked cigarettes lying all over the orchard, nearthe john and around the trees and down the rows. Then she hired half-a-dozen bums to pick cherries be-cause the picking was going too slowly. Rebel picked thebums up on skidrow every morning and drove them out tothe orchard in a rusty old truck. There were always half-a-dozen bums, but sometimes they had different faces. After they came to pick cherries I never saw any more ofher half-smoked cigarettes lying around. They were gonebefore they hit the ground. Looking back on it, you mightsay that Rebel Smith was anti-mud puddle, but then you miglnot say that at all. THE SALTCREEK COYOTESHigh and lonesome and steady, it's the smell of sheep downin the valley that has done it to them. Here all afternoon inthe rain I've been listening to the sound of the coyotes up onSalt Creek. The smell of the sheep grazing in the valley has done itto them. Their voices water and come down the canyon, pastthe summer homes. Their voices are a creek, running downthe mountain, over the bones of sheep, living and dead. O, THERE ARE COYOTES UP ON SALT CREEK so thesign on the trail says, and it also says, WATCH OUT FORCYANIDE CAPSULES PUT ALONG THE CREEK TO KILLCOYOTES. DON'T PICK THEM UP AND EAT THEM. NOTTHEY'LL KILL YOU. LEAVEUNLESS YOU'RE A COYOTE.THE M ALONE. Then the sign says this all over again in Spanish. i AH !HAY COYOTES EN SALT CREEK, TAMBIEN. CULDADOCON LAS CAPSULAS DE CIANURO: MATAN. NO LASCOMA; A MENOS QUE SEA VD. UN COYOTE. I12ATAN.NO LAS TOQUE. It does not say it in Russian. I asked an old guy in a bar about those cyanide capsulesup on Salt Creek and he told me that they were a kind of pis-tol. They put a pleasing coyote scent on the trigger (prob-ably the smell of a coyote snatch) and then a coyote comesalong and gives it a good sniff, a fast feel and BLAM! That'sall, brother. I went fishing up on Salt Creek and caught a nice littleDolly Varden trout, spotted and slender as a snake you'd ex-pect to find in a jewelry store, but after a while I could thinkonly of the gas chamber at San Quentin. O Caryl Chessman and Alexander Robillard Vistas ! as ifthey were names for tracts of three-bedroom houses withwall-to-wall carpets and plumbing that defies the imagination, Then it came to me up there on Salt Creek, capital pun-ishment being what it is, an act of state business with nosong down the railroad track after the train has gone and novibration on the rails, that they should take the head of acoyote killed by one of those God-damn cyanide things up onSalt Creek and hollow it out and dry it in the sun and thenmake it into a crown with the teeth running in a circle aroundthe top of it and a nice green light coming off the teeth. Then the nitnesses and newspapermen and gas chamberflunkies would have to watch a king wearing a coyote crowndie there in front of them, the gas rising in the chamber likea rain mist drifting down the mountain from Salt Creek. Ithas been raining here now for two days, and through the treesthe heart stops beating."
147,"2018-02-27 21:10:40","Part 6 of Trout Fishing in America","Richard Brautigan","THE HUNCHBACK TROUTThe creek was made narrow by little green trees that grewtoo close together. The creek was like 12, 845 telephonebooths in a row with high Victorian ceilings and all the doorstaken off and all the backs of the booths knocked out. Sometimes when I went fishing in there, I felt just like atelephone repairman, even though I did not look like one. Iwas only a kid covered with fishing tackle, but in somestrange way by going in there and catching a few trout, Ikept the telephones in service. I was an asset to society. It was pleasant work, but at times it made me uneasy.It could grow dark in there instantly when there were someclouds in the sky and they worked their way onto the sun.Then you almost needed candles to fish by, and foxfire inyour reflexes. Once I was in there when it started raining. It was darkand hot and steamy. I was of course on overtime. I had thatgoing in my favor. I caught seven trout in fifteen minutes. The trout in those telephone booths were good fellows.There were a lot of young cutthroat trout six to nine incheslong, perfect pan size for local calls. Sometimes therewere a few fellows, eleven inches or so--for the long dis-tance calls. I've always liked cutthroat trout. They put up a good fight,running against the bottom and then broad jumping. Undertheir throats they fly the orange banner of Jack the Ripper. Also in the creek were a few stubborn rainbow trout, sel-dom heard from, but there all the same, like certified pub-lic accountants. I'd catch one every once in a while. Theywere fat and chunky, almost as wide as they were long. I'veheard those trout called ""squire"" trout. It used to take me about an hour to hitchhike to that creek.There was a river nearby. The river wasn't much. The creekwas where I punched in. Leaving my card above the clockI'd punch out again when it was time to go home. I remember the afternoon I caught the hunchback trout. A farmer gave me a ride in a truck. He picked me up ata traffic signal beside a bean field and he never said a wordto me. His stopping and picking me up and driving me down theroad was as automatic a thing to him as closing the barndoor, nothing need be said about it, but still I was in motiontraveling thirty-five miles an hour down the road, watchinghouses and groves of trees go by, watching chickens andmailboxes enter and pass through my vision. Then I did not see any houses for a while. ""This is whereI get out, "" I said. The farmer nodded his head. The truck stopped. ""Thanks a lot, "" I said. The farmer did not ruin his audition for the MetropolitanOpera by making a sound. He just nodded his head again.The truck started up. He was the original silent old farmer. A little while later I was punching in at the creek. I putmy card above the clock and went into that long tunnel oftelephone booths. I waded about seventy-three telephone booths in. I caughttwo trout in a little hole that was like a wagon wheel. It wasone of my favorite holes, and always good for a trout or two. I always like to think of that hole as a kind of pencilsharpener. I put my reflexes in and they came back out witha good point on them. Over a period of a couple of years, Imust have caught fifty trout in that hole, though it was onlyas big as a wagon wheel. I was fishing with salmon eggs and using a size 14 singleegg hook on a pound and a quarter test tippet. The two troutlay in my creel covered entirely by green ferns ferns madegentle and fragile by the damp walls of telephone booths. The next good place was forty-five telephone booths in.The place was at the end of a run of gravel, brown and slip-pery with algae. The run of gravel dropped off and disap-peared at a little shelf where there were some white rocks. One of the rocks was kind of strange. It was a flat whiterock. Off by itself from the other rocks, it reminded meof a white cat I had seen in my childhood. The cat had fallen or been thrown off a high wooden side-walk that went along the side of a hill in Tacoma, Washing-ton. The cat was lying in a parking lot below. The fall had not appreciably helped the thickness of thecat, and then a few people had parked their cars on the cat.Of course, that was a long time ago and the cars looked dif-ferent from the way they look now. You hardly see those cars any more. They are the oldcars. They have to get off the highway because they can'tkeep up. That flat white rock off by itself from the other rocksreminded me of that dead cat come to lie there in the creek,among 12, 845 telephone booths. I threw out a salmon egg and let it drift down over thatrock and WHAM! a good hit! and I had the fish on and it ranhard downstream, cutting at an angle and staying deep andreally coming on hard, solid and uncompromising, and thenthe fish jumped and for a second I thought it was a frog. I'dnever seen a fish like that before. God-damn ! What the hell! The fish ran deep again and I could feel its life energyscreaming back up the line to my hand. The line felt likesound. It was like an ambulance siren coming straight atme, red light flashing, and then going away again and thentaking to the air and becoming an air-raid siren. The fish jumped a few more times and it still looked likea frog, but it didn't have any legs. Then the fish grew tiredand sloppy, and I swung and splashed it up the surface ofthe creek and into my net. The fish was a twelve-inch rainbow trout with a huge humpon its back. A hunchback trout. The first I'd ever seen. Thehump was probably due to an injury that occurred when thetrout was young. Maybe a horse stepped on it or a tree fellover in a storm or its mother spawned where they werebuilding a bridge. There was a fine thing about that trout. I only wish I couldhave made a death mask of him. Not of his body though, butof his energy. I don't know if anyone would have understoodhis body. I put it in my creel. Later in the afternoon when the telephone booths began togrow dark at the edges, I punched out of the creek and wenthome. I had that hunchback trout for dinner. Wrapped incornmeal and fried in butter, its hump tasted sweet as thekisses of Esmeralda. THE TEDDY ROOSEVELTCHINGADER'The Challis National Forest was created July 1, 1908, byExecutive Order of President Theodore RooseveltTwenty Million years ago scientists tell us, three-toedhorses, camels, and possible rhinoceroses were plentifulin this section of the country. This is part of my history in the Challis National Forest.We came over through Lowman after spending a little timewith my woman's Mormon relatives at McCall where welearned about Spirit Prison and couldn't find Duck Lake. I carried the baby up the mountain. The sign said 1 1/2miles. There was a green sports car parked on the road.We walked up the trail until we met a man with a greensports car hat on and a girl in a light summer dress. She had her dress rolled above her knees and when shesaw us coming, she rolled her dress down. The man had abottle of wine in his back pocket. The wine was in a longgreen bottle. It looked funny sticking out of his back pocket. How far is it to Spirit Prison?"" I asked. ""You're about half way, "" he said. The girl smiled. She had blonde hair and they went ondown. Bounce, bounce bounce, like a pair of birthday balls,down through the trees and boulders. I put the baby down in a patch of snow lying in the hollowbehind a big stump. She played in the snow and then startedeating it. I remembered something from a book by Justiceof the Supreme Court, William O. Douglas. DON'T EATSNOW. IT'S BAD FOR YOU AND WILL GIVE YOU A STOM-ACH ACHE. ""Stop eating that snow!"" I said to the baby. I put her on my shoulders and continued up the path towardSpirit Prison. That's where everybody who isn't a Mormongoes when they die. All Catholics, Buddhists, Moslems,Jews, Baptists, Methodists and International Jewel Thieves.Everybody who isn't a Mormon goes to the Spirit Slammer. The sign said 1 1/2 miles. The path was easy to follow,then it just stopped. We lost it near a creek. I looked allaround. I looked on both sides of the creek, but the path hadjust vanished. Could be the fact that we were still alive had somethingto do with it. Hard to tell. We turned around and started back down the mountain. Thebaby cried when she saw the snow again, holding out herhands for the snow. We didn't have time to stop. It was get-ting late. We got in our car and drove back to McCall. That eveningwe talked about Communism. The Mormon girl read aloud tous from a book called The Naked Communist written by anex-police chief of Salt Lake City. My woman asked the girl if she believed the book werewritten under the influence of Divine Power, if she consid-ered the book to be a religious text of some sort. The girl said, ""No."" I bought a pair of tennis shoes and three pairs of socks ata store in McCall. The socks had a written guarantee. I triedto save the guarantee, but I put it in my pocket and lost it.The guarantee said that if anything happened to the sockswithin three months time, I would get new socks. It seemedlike a good idea. I was supposed to launder the old socks and send them inwith the guarantee. Right off the bat, new socks would be ontheir way, traveling across America with my name on thepackage. Then all I would have to do, would be to open thepackage, take those new socks out and put them on. Theywould look good on my feet. I wish I hadn't lost that guarantee. That was a shame. I'vehad to face the fact that new socks are not going to be a familyheirloom. Losing the guarantee took care of that. All futuregenerations are on their own. We left McCall the next day, the day after I lost the sockguarantee, following the muddy water of the North Fork ofthe Payette down and the clear water of the South Fork up. We stopped at Lowman and had a strawberry milkshakeand then drove back into the mountains along Clear Creek andover the summit to Bear Creek There were signs nailed to the trees all along BearCreek, the signs said, ""IF YOU FISH IN THIS CREEK,WE'LL HIT YOU IN THE HEAD."" I didn't want to be hit inthe head, so I kept my fishing tackle right there in the car. We saw a flock of sheep. There's a sound that the babymakes when she sees furry animals. She also makes thatsound when she sees her mother and me naked. She madethat sound and we drove out of the sheep like an airplaneflies out of the clouds. We entered Challis National Forest about five milesaway from that sound. Driving now along Valley Creek, wesaw the Sawtooth Mountains for the first time. It was cloud-ing over and we thought it was going to rain. ""Looks like it's raining in Stanley, "" I said, though I hadnever been in Stanley before. It is easy to say things aboutStanley when you have never been there. We saw the road toBull Trout Lake. The road looked good. When we reachedStanley, the streets were white and dry like a collision at ahigh rate of speed between a cemetery and a truck loadedwith sacks of flour. We stopped at a store in Stanley. I bought a candy bar andasked how the trout fishing was in Cuba. The woman at thestore said, ""You're better off dead, you Commie bastard. ""I got a receipt for the candy bar to be used for income taxpurposes. The old ten-cent deduction. I didn't learn anything about fishing in that store. Thepeople were awfully nervous, especially a young man whowas folding overalls. He had about a hundred pairs left tofold and he was really nervous. We went over to a restaurant and I had a hamburger andmy woman had a cheeseburger and the baby ran in circleslike a bat at the World's Fair. There was a girl there in her early teens or maybe shewas only ten years old. She wore lipstick and had a loudvoice and seemed to be aware of boys. She got a lot of funout of sweeping the front porch of the restaurant. She came in and played around with the baby. She wasvery good with the baby. Her voice dropped down and gotsoft with the baby. She told us that her father'd had a heartattack and was still in bed. ""He can't get up and around, ""she said. We had some more coffee and I thought about the Mormons.That very morning we had said good-bye to them, after havingdrunk coffee in their house. The smell of coffee had been like a spider web in thehouse. It had not been an easy smell. It had not lent itself toreligious contemplation, thoughts of temple work to be donein Salt Lake, dead relatives to be discovered among ancientpapers in Illinois and Germany. Then more temple work tobe done in Salt Lake. The Mormon woman told us that when she had been mar-ried in the temple at Salt Lake, a mosquito had bitten her onthe wrist just before the ceremony and her wrist had swollenup and become huge and just awful. It could've been seenthrough the lace by a blindman. She had been so embarrassed. She told us that those Salt Lake mosquitoes always madeher swell up when they bit her. Last year, she had told us,she'd been in Salt Lake, doing some temple work for a deadrelative when a mosquito had bitten her and her whole bodyhad swollen up. ""I felt so embarrassed, "" she had told us.""Walking around like a balloon. "" We finished our coffee and left. Not a drop of rain had fal-len in Stanley. It was about an hour before sundown. We drove up to Big Redfish Lake, about four miles fromStanley and looked it over. Big Redfish Lake is the ForestLawn of camping in Idaho, laid out for maximum comfort.There were a lot of people camped there, and some of themlooked as if they had been camped there for a long time. We decided that we were too young to camp at Big RedfishLake, and besides they charged fifty cents a day, three dol-lars a week like a skidrow hotel, and there were just toomany people there. There were too many trailers and camp-ers parked in the halls. We couldn't get to the elevator be-cause there was a family from New York parked there in aten-room trailer. Three children came by drinking rub-a-dub and pullingan old granny by her legs. Her legs were straight out andstiff and her butt was banging on the carpet. Those kids werepretty drunk and the old granny wasn't too sober either, shout-ing something like, ""Let the Civil War come again, I'm readyto fuck!"" We went down to Little Redfish Lake. The campgroundsthere were just about abandoned. There were so many peopleup at Big Redfish Lake and practically nobody camping atLittle Redfish Lake, and it was free, too. We wondered what was wrong with the camp. If perhapsa camping plague, a sure destroyer that leaves all yourcamping equipment, your car and your sex organs in tatterslike old sails, had swept the camp just a few days before,and those few people who were staying at the camp now, werestaying there because they didn't have any sense. We joined them enthusiastically. The camp had a beautifulview of the mountains. We found a place that really lookedgood, right on the lake. Unit 4 had a stove. It was a square metal box mounted ona cement block. There was a stove pipe on top of the box,but there were no bullet holes in the pipe. I was amazed. Al-most all the camp stoves we had seen in Idaho had been fullof bullet holes. I guess it's only reasonable that people,when they get the chance, would want to shoot some old stovesitting in the woods. Unit 4 had a big wooden table with benches attached to itlike a pair of those old Benjamin Franklin glasses, the oneswith those funny square lenses. I sat down on the left lensfacing the Sawtooth Mountains. Like astigmatism, I mademyself at home. FOOTNOTE CHAPTER TO ""THE SHIPPING OF TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA SHORTY TO NELSON ALGREN""Well, well, Trout Fishing in America Shorty's back in town,but I don't think it's going to be the same as it was before.Those good old days are over because Trout Fishing in Am-erica Shorty is famous. The movies have discovered him. Last week ""The New Wave"" took him out of his wheel-chair and laid him out in a cobblestone alley. Then they shotsome footage of him. He ranted and raved and they put itdown on film. Later on, probably, a different voice will be dubbed in.It will be a noble and eloquent voice denouncing man's in-humanity to man in no uncertain terms. ""Trout Fishing in America Shorty, Mon Amour. "" His soliloquy beginning with, ""I was once a famous skip-tracer known throughout America as 'Grasshopper Nijinsky.'Nothing was too good for me. Beautiful blondes followed mewherever I went."" Etc. . . . They'll milk it for all it'sworth and make cream and butter from a pair of emptypants legs and a low budget. But I may be all wrong. What was being shot may havebeen just a scene from a new science-fiction movie ""TroutFishing in America Shorty from Outer Space."" One of thosecheap thrillers with the theme: Scientists, mad-or-otherwise,should never play God, that ends with the castle on fire anda lot of people walking home through the dark woods."
148,"2018-02-27 21:10:45","Part 8 of Trout Fishing in America","Richard Brautigan","A RETURN TO THE COVER OF THIS BOOKDear Trout Fishing in America: I met your friend Fritz in Washington Square. He told meto tell you that his case went to a jury and that he was acquit-ted by the jury. He said that it was important for me to say that his casewent to a jury and that he was acquitted by the jury,said it again. He looked in good shape. He was sitting in the sun. There'san old San Francisco saying that goes: ""It's better to rest inWashington Square than in the California Adult Authority. ""How are things in New York? Yours, ""An Ardent Admirer""Dear Ardent Admirer: It's good to hear that Fritz isn't in jail. He was very wor-ried about it. The last time I was in San Francisco, he toldme he thought the odds were 10-1 in favor of him going away.I told him to get a good lawyer. It appears that he followedmy advice and also was very lucky. That's always a goodcombination. You asked about New York and New York is very hot. I'm visiting some friends, a young burglar and his wife.He's unemployed and his wife is working as a cocktail wait-ress. He's been looking for work but I fear the worst. It was so hot last night that I slept with a wet sheet wrappedaround myself, trying to keep cool. I felt like a mental patient. I woke up in the middle of the night and the room was filledwith steam rising off the sheet, and there was jungle stuff,abandoned equipment and tropical flowers, on the floor andon the furniture. I took the sheet into the bathroom and plopped it into thetub and turned the cold water on it. Their dog came in andstarted barking at me. The dog barked so loud that the bathroom was soon filledwith dead people. One of them wanted to use my wet sheetfor a shroud. I said no, and we got into a big argument overit and woke up the Puerto Ricans in the next apartment, andthey began pounding on the walls. The dead people all left in a huff. ""We know when we'renot wanted, "" one of them said. ""You're damn tootin',"" I said. I've had enough. I' m going to get out of New York. Tomorrow I'm leaving forAlaska. I'm going to find an ice-cold creek near the Arcticwhere that strange beautiful moss grows and spend a weekwith the grayling. My address will be, Trout Fishing in Ameri-ca, c/o General Delivery, Fairbanks, Alaska. Your friend, Trout Fishing in America THE LAKE JOSEPHUS DAYSWe left Little Redfish for Lake Josephus, traveling along thegood names--from Stanley to Capehorn to Seafoam to theRapid River, up Float Creek, past the Greyhound Mine andthen to Lake Josephus, and a few days after that up the trailto Hell-diver Lake with the baby on my shoulders and a goodlimit of trout waiting in Hell-diver. Knowing the trout would wait there like airplane ticketsfor us to come, we stopped at Mushroom Springs and had adrink of cold shadowy water and some photographs taken ofthe baby and me sitting together on a log. I hope someday we'll have enough money to get those pic-tures developed. Sometimes I get curious about them, won-dering if they will turn out all right. They are in suspensionnow like seeds in a package. I'll be older when they are de-veloped and easier to please. Look there's the baby ! Lookthere's Mushroom Springs ! Look there's me ! I caught the limit of trout within an hour of reaching Hell-diver, and my woman, in all the excitement of good fishing,let the baby fall asleep directly in the sun and when the babywoke up, she puked and I carried her back down the trail. My woman trailed silently behind, carrying the rods andthe fish. The baby puked a couple more times, thimblefulsof gentle lavender vomit, but still it got on my clothes, andher face was hot and flushed. We stopped at Mushroom Springs. I gave her a smalldrink of water, not too much, and rinsed the vomit taste outof her mouth. Then I wiped the puke off my clothes and forsome strange reason suddenly it was a perfect time, thereat Mushroom Springs, to wonder whatever happened to theZoot suit. Along with World War II and the Andrews Sisters, theZoot suit had been very popular in the early 40s. I guessthey were all just passing fads. A sick baby on the trail down from Hell-diver, July 1961,is probably a more important question. It cannot be left togo on forever, a sick baby to take her place in the galaxy,among the comets, bound to pass close to the earth every173 years. She stopped puking after Mushroom Springs, and I carriedher back down along the path in and out of the shadows andacross other nameless springs, and by the time we got downto Lake Josephus, she was all right. She was soon running around with a big cutthroat trout inher hands, carrying it like a harp on her way to a concert--ten minutes late with no bus in sight and no taxi either TROUT FISHING ON THE STREET OF ETERNITYCalle de Eternidad: We walked up from Gelatao, birthplaceof Benito Juarez. Instead of taking the road we followed apath up along the creek. Some boys from the school in Gela-tao told us that up along the creek was the shortcut. The creek was clear but a little milky, and as 1 remem-ber the path was steep in places. We met people coming dowrthe path because it was really the shortcut. They were allIndians carrying something. Finally the path went away from the creek and we climbeda hill and arrived at the cemetery. It was a very old ceme-tery and kind of run down with weeds and death growing therelike partners in a dance. There was a cobblestone street leading up from the ceme-tery to the town of Ixtlan, pronounced East-LON, on top ofanother hill. There were no houses along the street untilyoureached the town. In the hair of the world, the street was very steep as youwent up into Ixtlan. There was a street sign that pointedbackdown toward the cemetery, following every cobblestone withloving care all the way. We were still out of breath from the climb. The sign saidCalle de Eternidad. Pointing. I was not always a world traveler, visiting exotic placesin Southern Mexico. Once I was just a kid working for anoldwoman in the Pacific Northwest. She was in her nineties andI worked for her on Saturdays and after school and duringthesummer. Sometimes she would make me lunch, little egg sandwich-es with the crusts cut off as if by a surgeon, and she'd giveme slices of banana dunked in mayonnaise. The old woman lived by herself in a house that was like atwin sister to her. The house was four stories high and hadat least thirty rooms and the old lady was five feet high andweighed about eighty-two pounds. She had a big radio from the 1920s in the living room andit was the only thing in the house that looked remotely as ifit had come from this century, and then there was still adoubt in my mind. A lot of cars, airplanes and vacuum cleaners and refrig-erators and things that come from the 1920s look as if theyhad come from the 1890s. It's the beauty of our speed thathas done it to them, causing them to age prematurely into theclothes and thoughts of people from another century. The old woman had an old dog, but he hardly counted anymore. He was so old that he looked like a stuffed dog. OnceI took him for a walk down to the store. It was just like tak-ing a stuffed dog for a walk. I tied him up to a stuffed firehydrant and he pissed on it, but it was only stuffed piss. I went into the store and bought some stuffing for the oldlady. Maybe a,pound of coffee or a quart of mayonnaise. I did things for her like chop the Canadian thistles. Dur-ing the 1920s (or was it the 1890s) she was motoring in Cali-fornia, and her husband stopped the car at a filling stationand told the attendant to fill it up. ""How about some wild flower seeds?"" the attendant said. ""No, "" her husband said. ""Gasoline."" ""I know that, sir, "" the attendant said. ""But we're givingaway wild flower seeds with the gasoline today. "" ""All right, "" her husband said. ""Give us some wild flowerseeds, then. But be sure and fill the car up with gasoline.Gasoline's what I really want. "" ""They'll brighten up your garden, sir."" "" The gasoline 7"" ""No, sir, the flowers."" They returned to the Northwest, planted the seeds andthey were Canadian thistles. Every year I chopped themdownand they always grew back. I poured chemicals on them andthey always grew back. Curses were music to their roots. A blow on the back ofthe neck was like a harpsichord to them. Those Canadianthistles were there for keeps. Thank you, California, forYour beautiful wild flowers. I chopped them down every year.I did other things for her like mow the lawn with a grim Old lawnmower. When I first went to work for her, she told me to be careful with that lawnmower. Some itinerant had Stopped at her place a few weeks before, asked for some work so he could rent a hotel room and get something to eat, and she'd said, ""You can mow the lawn. "" ""Thanks, maram, "" he'd said and went out and promptly cut three fingers off his right hand with that medieval mach- ine. I was always very careful with that lawnmower, knowing that somewhere on that place, the ghosts of three fingers were living it up in the grand spook manner. They needed no company from my fingers. My fingers looked just great, rigl: there on my hands. I cleaned out her rock garden and deported snakes when- ever I found them on her place. She told me to kill them, but I couldn't see any percentage in wasting a gartersnake. But I had to get rid of the things because she always promisedme she'd have a heart attack if she ever stepped on one of them. So I'd catch them and deport them to a yard across the street, where nine old ladies probably had heart attacks and died from finding those snakes in their toothbrushes. Fortu- n ately, I was never around when their bodies were taken awa! I'd clean the blackberry hushes out of the lilac hushes. Once in a while she'd give me some lilacs to take home and they were always fine-looking lilacs, and I always felt good, Walking down the street, holding the lilacs high and proud like glasses of that famous children's drink: the good flower wine . I'd chop wood for her stove. She cooked on a woodstove and heated the place during the winter with a huge wood fur- nace that she manned like the captain of a submarine in a dark basement ocean during the winter. In the summer I'd throw endless cords of wood into her basement until I was silly in the head and everything looked like wood, even clouds in the sky and cars parked on the street and cats. There were dozens of little tiny things that I did for her.Find a lost screwdriver, lost in 1911. Pick her a pan full ofpie cherries in the spring, and pick the rest of the cherrieson the tree for myself. Prune those goofy, at best half-assedtrees in the backyard. The ones that grew beside an old pileoflumber. Weed. One early autumn day she loaned me to the woman nextdoor and I fixed a small leak in the roof of her woodshed.The woman gave me a dollar tip, and I said thank you, andthe next time it rained, all the newspapers she had been sav-ing for seventeen years to start fires with got soaking wet.From then on out, I received a sour look every time Ipassed her house. I was lucky I wasn't lynched. I didn't work for the old lady in the winter. I'd finish theyear by the last of October, raking up leaves or somethinor transporting the last muttering gartersnake to winterquarters in the old ladies' toothbrush Valhalla across thestreet. Then she'd call me on the telephone in the spring. I wouldalways be surprised to hear her little voice, surprised thatshe was still alive. I'd get on my horse and go out to herplace and the whole thing would begin again and I'd make afew bucks and stroke the sun-warmed fur of her stuffed dog. One spring day she had me ascend to the attic and cleanup some boxes of stuff and throw out some stuff and put somestuff back intd its imaginary proper place. I was up there all alone for three hours. It was my firsttime up there and my last, thank God. The attic was stuffedto the gills with stuff. Everything that's old in this world was up there. I spentmost of my time just looking around. An old trunk caught my eye. I unstrapped the straps, un-clicked the various clickers and opened the God-damn thing.It was stuffed with old fishing tackle. There were old rodsand reels and lines and boots and creels and there was a metalbox full of flies and lures and hooks. Some of the hooks still had worms on them. The wormswere years and decades old and petrified to the hooks. Theworms were now as much a part of the hooks as the metal it-self. There was some old Trout Fishing in America armor inthe trunk and beside a weather-beaten fishing helmet, I sawan old diary. I opened the diary to the first page and it said:The Trout Fishing Diary of Alonso Hagen It seemed to me that was the name of the old lady's brotherwho had died of a strange ailment in his youth, a thing I foundout by keeping my ears open and looking at a large photographprominently displayed in her front room. I turned to the next page in the old diary and it had in col-umns:The Trips and The Trout LostApril 7, 1891 Trout Lost 8April 15, 1891 Trout Lost 6April 23, 1891 Trout Lost 12May 13, 1891 Trout Lost 9May 23, 1891 Trout Lost 15May 24, 1891 Trout Lost 10May 25, 1891 Trout Lost 12June 2, 1891 Trout Lost 18June 6, 1891 Trout Lost 15June 17, 1891 Trout Lost 7June 19, 1891 Trout Lost 10June 23, 1891 Trout Lost 14July 4, 1891 Trout Lost 13July 23, 1891 Trout Lost 11August 10, 1891 Trout Lost 13August 17, 1891 Trout Lost 8August 20, 1891 Trout Lost 12August 29, 1891 Trout Lost 21September 3, 1891 Trout Lost 10September 11, 1891 Trout Lost 7September 19, 1891 Trout Lost 5September 23, 1891 Trout Lost 3Total Trips 22 Total Trout Lost 239Average Number of Trout Lost Each Trip 10.8 I turned to the third page and it was just like the preced-ing page except the year was 1892 and Alonso Hagen went on24 trips and lost 317 trout for an average of 13. 2 trout losteach trip. The next page was 1893 and the totals were 33 trips and480 trout lost for an average of 14. 5 trout lost each trip. The next page was 1894. He went on 27 trips, lost 349trout for an average of 12.9 trout lost each trip. The next page was 1895. He went on 41 trips, lost 730trout for an average of 17.8 trout lost each trip. The next page was 1896. Alonso Hagen only went out 12times and lost 115 trout for an average of 9.5 trout lost eachtrip. The next page was 1897. He went on one trip and lost onetrout for an average of one trout lost for one trip. The last page of the diary was the grand totals for theyears running from 1891-1897. Alonso Hagen went fishing160 times and lost 2, 231 trout for a seven-year average of13.9 trout lost every time he went fishing. Under the grand totals, there was a little Trout Fishingin America epitaph by Alonso Hagen. It said something like: ""I've had it. I've gone fishing now for seven years and I haven't caught a single trout. I've lost every trout I ever hooked. They either jump off or twist off. or squirm off or break my leader or flop off or fuck off. I have never even gotten my hands on a trout. For all its frustration, I believe it was an interesting experiment in total loss but next year somebody else will have to go trout fishing. Somebody else will have to go out there."" THE TOWELWe came down the road from Lake Josephus and down theroad from Seafoam. We stopped along the way to get a drinkof water. There was a small monument in the forest. Iwalked over to the monument to see what was happening. Theglass door of the lookout was partly open and a towel washanging on the other side. At the center of the monument was a photograph. It wasthe classic forest lookout photograph Ihave seen before, fromthat America that existed during the 1920s and 30s. There was a man in the photograph who looked a lot likeCharles A. Lindbergh. He had that same Spirit of St. Louisnobility and purpose of expression, except that his North At-lantic was the forests of Idaho. There was a woman cuddled up close to him. She was oneof those great cuddly women of the past, wearing those pantsthey used to wear and those hightop, laced boots. They were standing on the porch of the lookout. The sky wasbehind them, no more than afewfeet away. People in those daysliked to take that photograph and they liked to be in it.There were words on the monument. They said: ""In memory of Charley J. Langer, District Forest Ranger, Challis NationalForest, Pilot Captain Bill Kelly and Co-Pilot Arthur A. Crofts, of the U. S. Army killed in an Airplane Crash April 5, 1943, near this point while searching for survivors of an Army Bomber Crew."" 0 it's far away now in the mountains that a photographguards the memory of a man. The photograph is all alone outthere. The snow is falling eighteen years after his death. Itcovers up the door. It covers up the towel."
149,"2018-02-27 21:10:47","Part 9 of Trout Fishing in America","Richard Brautigan","SANDBOX MINUS JOHN DILLINGER EQUALS WHAT?Often I return to the cover of Trout Fishing in America. Itook the baby and went down there this morning. They werewatering the cover with big revolving sprinklers. I saw somebread lying on the grass. It had been put there to feed thepigeons. The old Italians are always doing things like that. Thebread had been turned to paste by the water and was squashedflat against the grass. Those dopey pigeons were waiting untilthe water and grass had chewed up the bread for them, sothey wouldn't have to do it themselves. I let the baby play in the sandbox and I sat down on a benchand looked around. There was a beatnik sitting at the otherend -of the bench. He had his sleeping bag beside him and hewas eating apple turnovers. He had a huge sack of apple turn-overs and he was gobbling them down like a turkey. It wasprobably a more valid protest than picketing missile bases. The baby played in the sandbox. She had on a red dressand the Catholic church was towering up behind her red dress.There was a brick john between her dress and the church. Itwas there by no accident. Ladies to the left and gents to theright. A red dress, I thought. Wasn't the woman who set JohnDillinger up for the FBI wearing a red dress? They calledher ""The Woman in Red. "" It seemed to me that was right. It was a red dress, but sofar, John Dillinger was nowhere in sight. my daughterplayed alone in the sandbox. Sandbox minus John Dillinger equals what? The beatnik went and got a drink of water from the fountainthat was crucified on the wall of the brick john, more towardthe gents than the ladies. He had to wash all those apple turn-overs down his throat. There were three sprinklers going in the park. There wasone in front of the Benjamin Franklin statue and one to theside of him and one just behind him. They were all turning incircles. I saw Benjamin Franklin standing there patientlythrough the water. The sprinkler to the side of Benjamin Franklin hit the left-hand tree. It sprayed hard against the trunk and knocked someleaves down from the tree, and then it hit the center tree,sprayed hard against the trunk and more leaves fell. Then itsprayed against Benjamin Franklin, the water shot out to thesides of the stone and a mist drifted down off the water. Ben-jamin Franklin got his feet wet. The sun was shining down hard on me. The sun was brightand hot. After a while the sun made me think of my own dis-comfort. The only shade fell on the beatnik. The shade came down off the Lillie Hitchcock Colt statueof some metal fireman saving a metal broad from a mentalfire. The beatnik now lay on the bench and the shade was twofeet longer than he was. A friend of mine has written a poem about that statue. God-damn, I wish he would write another poem about that statue,SO it would give me some shade two feet longer than my body. I was right about ""The Woman in Red, "" because ten min-utes later they blasted John Dillinger down in the sandbox.The sound of the machine-gun fire startled the pigeons andthey hurried on into the church. My daughter was seen leaving in a huge black car shortlyafter that. She couldn't talk yet, but that didn't make any dif-ference. The red dress did it all. John Dillinger's body lay half in and half out of the sand-box, more toward the ladies than the gents. He was leakingblood like those capsules we used to use with oleomargarine,in those good old days when oleo was white like lard. The huge black car pulled out and went up the street, bat-light shining off the top. It stopped in front of the ice-creamparlor at Filbert and Stockton. An agent got out and went in and bought two hundreddouble-decker ice-cream cones. He needed a wheelbarrowto get them back to the car. THE LAST TIME I SAW TROUT FISHING IN AMERICAThe last time we met was in July on the Big Wood River, tenmiles away from Ketchum. It was just after Hemingway hadkilled himself there, but I didn't know about his death at thetime. I didn't know about it until I got back to San Franciscoweeks after the thing had happened and picked up a copy ofLife magazine. There was a photograph of Hemingway on thecover. ""I wonder what Hemingway's up to, "" I said to myself. Ilooked inside the magazine and turned the pages to his death.Trout Fishing in America forgot to tell me about it. I'm cer-tain he knew. It must have slipped his mind. The woman who travels with me had menstrual cramps.She wanted to rest for a while, so I took the baby and my spin-ning rod and went down to the Big Wood River. That's whereI met Trout Fishing in America. I was casting a Super-Duper out into the river and lettingit swing down with the current and then ride on the water upclose to the shore. It fluttered there slowly and Trout Fish-ing in America watched the baby while we talked. I remember that he gave her some colored rocks to playwith. She liked him and climbed up onto his lap and she start-ed putting the rocks in his shirt pocket. We talked about Great Falls, Montana. I told Trout Fish-ing in America about a winter I spent as a child in GreatFalls.""It was during the war and I saw a Deanna Durbin movie seventimes, ""I said. The baby put a blue rock in Trout Fishing in America'sshirt pocket and he said, ""I've been to Great Falls manytimes. I remember Indians and fur traders. I rememberLewis and Clark, but I don't remember ever seeing a DeannaDurbin movie in Great Falls."" ""I know what you mean, "" I said. ""The other people inGreat Falls did not share my enthusiasm for Deanna Durbin,The theater was always empty. There was a darkness to thattheater different from any theater I've been in since. Maybeit was the snow outside and Deanna Durbin inside. I don'tknow what it was."" ""What was the name of the movie?"" Trout Fishing in Am-erica said. ""I don't know, "" I said. ""She sang a lot. Maybe she was achorus girl who wanted to go to college or she was a richgirl or they needed money for something or she did somethingWhatever it was about, she sang! and sang! but I can't re-member a God-damn word of it. ""One afternoon after I had seen the Deanna Durbin movieagain, I went down to the Missouri River. Part of the Mis-souri was frozen over. There was a railroad bridge there.I was very relieved to see that the Missouri River had notchanged and begun to look like Deanna Durbin. ""I'd had a childhood fancy that I would walk down to theMissouri River and it would look just like a Deanna Durbinmovie--a chorus girl who wanted to go to college or she wasa rich girl or they needed money for something or she dids something. ""To this day I don't know why I saw that movie seventimes. It was just as deadly as The Cabinet of Doctor Cali-gari. I wonder if the Missouri River is still there?"" I said. ""It is, "" Trout Fishing in America said smiling. ""But itdoesn't look like Deanna Durbin. "" The baby by this time had put a dozen or so of the coloredrocks in Trout Fishing in America's shirt pocket. He lookedat me and smiled and waited for me to go on about GreatFalls, but just then I had a fair strike on my Super-Duper. Ijerked the rod back and missed the fish. Trout Fishing in America said, ""I know that fish who juststruck. You'll never catch him. "" ""Oh, "" I said. ""Forgive me, "" Trout Fishing in America said. ""Go onahead and try for him. He'll hit a couple of times more, butyou won't catch him. He's not a particularly smart fish. Justlucky. Sometimes that's all you need. "" ""Yeah, "" I said. ""You're right there. "" I cast out again and continued talking about Great Falls. Then in correct order I recited the twelve least importantthings ever said about Great Falls, Montana. For the twelfthand least important thing of all, I said, ""Yeah, the telephonewould ring in the morning. I'd get out of bed. I didn't have toanswer the telephone. That had all been taken care of, yearsin advance. ""It would still be dark outside and the yellow wallpaper inthe hotel room would be running back off the light bulb. I'dput my clothes on and go down to the restaurant where mystepfather cooked all night. ""I'd have breakfast, hot cakes, eggs and whatnot. Thenhe'd make my lunch for me and it would always be the samething: a piece of pie and a stone-cold pork sandwich. After-wards I'd walk to school. I mean the three of us, the HolyTrinity: me, a piece of pie, and a stone-cold pork sandwich.This went on for months. ""Fortunately it stopped one day without my having to doanything serious like grow up. We packed our stuff and lefttown on a bus. That was Great Falls, Montana. You say theMissouri River is still there?"" ""Yes, but it doesn't look like Deanna Durbin, "" Trout Fish-ing in America said. ""I remember the day Lewis discoveredthe falls. They left their camp at sunrise and a few hourslater they came upon a beautiful plain and on the plain weremore buffalo than they had ever seen before in one place. ""They kept on going until they heard the faraway sound ofa waterfall and saw a distant column of spray rising and dis-appearing. They followed the sound as it got louder and loud-er. After a while the sound was tremendous and they were atthe great falls of the Missouri River. It was about noon whenthey got there. ""A nice thing happened that afternoon, they went fishingbelow the falls and caught half a dozen trout, good ones, too,from sixteen to twenty-three inches long. ""That was June 13, 1805. ""No, I don't think Lewis would have understood it if theMissouri River had suddenly begun to look like a Deanna Dur-bin movie, like a chorus girl who wanted to go to college, ""Trout Fishing in America said. IN THE CALIFORNIA BUSHI've come home from Trout Fishing in America, the highwaybent its long smooth anchor about my neck and then stopped.Now I live in this place. It took my whole life to get here, toget to this strange cabin above Mill Valley. We're staying with Pard and his girlfriend. They haverented a cabin for three months, June 15th to September 15th,for a hundred dollars. We are a funny bunch, all living heretogether. Pard was born of Okie parents in British Nigeria and cameto America when he was two years old and was raised as aranch kid in Oregon, Washington and Idaho. He was a machinegunner in the Second World War, againstthe Germans. He fought in France and Germany. SergeantPard. Then he came back from the war and went to somehick college in Idaho. After he graduated from college, he went to Paris and be-came an Existentialist, He had a photograph taken of Exis-tentialism and himself sitting at a sidewalk cafe. Pard wasWearing a beard and he looked as if he had a huge soul, withbarely enough room in his body to contain it. When Pard came back to America from Paris, he workedas a tugboat man on San Francisco Bay and as a railroadman in the roundhouse at Filer, Idaho. Of course, during this time he got married and had a kid.The wife and kid are gone now, blown away like apples by thefickle wind of the Twentieth Century. I guess the fickle windof alltime. The family that fell in the autumn. After he split up with his wife, he went to Arizona and wasa reporter and editor of newspapers. He honky-tonked inNaco, a Mexican border town, drank illescal Mescal Triunfo, playedcards and shot the roof of his house full of bullet holes. Pard tells a story about waking one morning in Naco, allhungover, with the whips and jingles. A friend of his was sit-ting at the table with a bottle of whisky beside him. Pard reached over and picked up a gun off a chair andtook aim at the whisky bottle and fired. His friend was thensitting there, covered with flecks of glass, blood and whisky.""What the fuck you do that for?"" he said. Now in his late thirties Pard works at a print shop for$1. 35 an hour. It is an avant-garde print shop. They printpoetry and experimental prose. They pay him $1. 35 an hourfor operating a linotype machine. A $1. 35 linotype operatoris hard to find, outside of Hong Kong or Albania. Sometimes when he goes down there, they don't even haveenough lead for him. They buy their lead like soap, a bar ortwo at a time. Pard's girlfriend is a Jew. Twenty-four years old, gettingover a bad case of hepatitis, she kids Pard about a nude pho-tograph of her that has the possibility of appearing in Playboymagazine. ""There's nothing to worry about, "" she says. ""If they usethat photograph, it only means that 12, 000, 000 men will lookat my boobs. "" This is all very funny to her. Her parents have money. Asshe sits in the other room in the California bush, she's onher father's payroll in New York. What we eat is funny and what we drink is even more hilar-ious: turkeys, Gallo port, hot dogs, watermelons, Popeyes,salmon croquettes, frappes, Christian Brothers port, orangerye bread, canteloupes, Popeyes, salads, cheese--booze,grub and Popeyes. Popeyes? We read books like The Thief's Journal, Set This Houseon Fire The Naked Lunch, Krafft-Ebing. We read Krafft-Ebing aloud all the time as if he were Kraft dinner. ""The mayor of a small town in Eastern Portugal was seenone morning pushing a wheelbarrow full of sex organs intothe city hall. He was of tainted family. He had a woman'sshoe in his back pocket. It had been there all night. "" Thingslike this make us laugh. The woman who owns this cabin will come back in the aut-umn. She's spending the summer in Europe. When she comesback, she will spend only one day a week out here: Saturday. She will never spend the night because she's afraid to. There is something here that makes her afraid. Pard and his girlfriend sleep in the cabin and the baby sleeps in the basement, and we sleep outside under the apple tree, waking at dawn to stare out across San Francisco Bay and then we go back to sleep again and wake once more, this time for a very strange thing to happen, and then we go back to sleep again after it has happened, and wake at sunrise to stare out across the bay. Afterwards we go back to sleep again and the sun rises steadily hour after hour, staying in the branches of a eucalyp- tus tree just a ways down the hill, keeping us cool and asleep and in the shade. At last the sun pours over the top of the tree and then we have to get up, the hot sun upon us. We go into the house and begin that two-hour yak-yak acti- vity we call breakfast. We sit around and bring ourselves slowly back to consciousness, treating ourselves like fine pieces of china, and after we finish the last cup of the last cup of the last cup of coffee, it's time to think about lunch or go to the Goodwill in Fairfax. So here we are, living in the California bush above Mill Valley. We could look right down on the main street of Mill Valley if it were not for the eucalyptus tree. We have to park the car a hundred yards away and come here along a tunnel- like path. If all the Germans Pard killed during the war with his machine-gun were to come and stand in their uniforms around this place, it would make us pretty nervous. There's the warm sweet smell of blackberry bushes along the path and in the late afternoon, quail gather around a dead unrequited tree that has fallen bridelike across the path. Some- times I go down there and jump the quail. I just go down there to get them up off their butts. They're such beautiful birds. They set their wings and sail on down the hill. O he was the one who was born to be king! That one, turn- ing down through the Scotch broom and going over an upside- down car abandoned in the yellow grass. That one, his gray wings . One morning last week, part way through the dawn, I awokeunder the apple tree, to hear a dog barking and the rapidsound of hoofs coming toward me. The millennium? An in-vasion of Russians all wearing deer feet? I opened my eyes and saw a deer running straight at me.It was a buck with large horns. There was a police dog chas-ing after it. Arfwowfuck ! Noisepoundpoundpoundpoundpoundpound IPOUND ! POUND ! The deer didn't swerve away. He just kept running straightat me, long after he had seen me, a second or two had passed. Arfwowfuckl Noisepoundpoundpoundpoundpoundpound!POUND I POUND ! I could have reached out and touched him when he went by. He ran around the house, circling the john, with the doghot after him. They vanished over the hillside, leavingstreamers of toilet paper behind them, flowing out and en-tangled through the bushes and vines. Then along came the doe. She started up the same way,but not moving as fast. Maybe she had strawberries in herhead. ""Whoa!"" I shouted. ""Enough is enough! I'm not sellingnewspapers!"" The doe stopped in her tracks, twenty-five feet away andturned and went down around the eucalyptus tree. Well, that's how it's gone now for days and days. I wakeup just before they come. I wake up for them in the samemanner as I do for the dawn and the sunrise. Suddenly know-ing they're on their way. THE LAST MENTION OF TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA SHORTYSaturday was the first day of autumn and there was a festivalbeing held at the church of Saint Francis. It was a hot dayand the Ferris wheel was turning in the air like a thermo-meter bent in a circle and given the grace of music. But all this goes back to another time, to when my daught-er was conceived. We'd just moved into a new apartment andthe lights hadn't been turned on yet. We were surrounded byunpacked boxes of stuff and there was a candle burning likemilk on a saucer. So we got one in and we're sure it was theright one. A friend was sleeping in another room. In retrospect Ihope we didn't wake him up, though he has been awakened andgone to sleep hundreds of times since then. During the pregnancy I stared innocently at that growinghuman center and had no idea the child therein containedwould ever meet Trout Fishing in America Shorty. Saturday afternoon we went down to Washington Square.We put the baby down on the grass and she took off runningtoward Trout Fishing in America Shorty who was sitting un-der the trees by the Benjamin Franklin statue. He was on the ground leaning up against the right-handtree. There were some garlic sausages and some bread sit-ting in his wheelchair as if it were a display counter in astrange grocery store. The baby ran down there and tried to make off with one ofhis sausages. Trout Fishing in America Shorty was instantly alerted,then he saw it was a baby and relaxed. He tried to coax herto come over and sit on his legless lap. She hid behind hiswheelchair, staring past the metal at him, one of her handsholding onto a wheel. ""Come here, kid, "" he said. ""Come over and see old TroutFishing in America Shorty. "" Just then the Benjamin Franklin statue turned green likea traffic light, and the baby noticed the sandbox at the otherend of the park. The sandbox suddenly looked better to her than Trout Fish-ing in America Shorty. She didn't care about his sausagesany more either. She decided to take advantage of the green light, and shecrossed over to the sandbox. Trout Fishing in America Shorty stared after her as ifthe space between them were a river growing larger andlarger."
150,"2018-02-27 21:10:52","Iva's Pantoum","Marilyn Hacker","We pace each other for a long time.I packed my anger with the beef jerky.You are the baby on the mountain. I am in a cold stream where I led you.I packed my anger with the beef jerky.You are the woman sticking her tongue out in a cold stream where I led you.You are the woman with spring water palms.You are the woman sticking her tongue out.I am the woman who matches sounds.You are the woman with spring water palms.I am the woman who copies.You are the woman who matches sounds.You are the woman who makes up words. You are the woman who copiesher cupped palm with her fist in clay.I am the woman who makes up words.You are the woman who shapesa drinking bowl with her fist in clay.I am the woman with rocks in her pockets.I am the woman who shapes.I was a baby who knew names.You are the child with rocks in her pockets.You are the girl in a plaid dress.You are the woman who knows names.You are the baby who could fly.You are the girl in a plaid dressupside-down on the monkey bars.You are the baby who could flyover the moon from a swinging perchupside-down on the monkey bars.You are the baby who eats meat.Over the moon from a swinging perchthe feathery goblin calls her sister.You are the baby who eats meatthe bitch wolf hunts and chews for you.The feathery goblin calls her sister:""You are braver than your mother.The bitch wolf hunts and chews for you.What are you whining about now?""You are braver than your motherand I am not a timid woman:what are you whining about now?My palms itch with slick anger,and I'm not a timid woman.You are the woman I can't mention;my palms itch with slick anger.You are the heiress of scraped knees.You are the woman I can't mentionto a woman I want to love.You are the heiress of scaped knees:scrub them in mountain water.To a woman, I want to lovewomen you could turn into,scrub them in mountain water,stroke their astonishing faces.Women you could turn intothe scare mask of Bad Motherstroke their astonishing facesin the silver-scratched sink mirror.The scare mask of Bad Mothercrumbles to chunked, pinched clay,sinks in the silver-scratched mirror.You are the Little Robber Girl, whocrumbles the clay chunks, pinchesher friend, givers her a sharp knife.You are the Little Robber Girl, whowas any witch's youngest daughter.Our friend gives you a sharp knife,shows how the useful blades open.Was any witch's youngest daughtergolden and bold as you? You run andshow how the useful blades open.You are the baby on the mountain. I am golden and bold as you. You run and we pace each other for a long time."
151,"2018-02-27 21:10:52","The Baby's Dance","Ann Taylor","Dance little baby, dance up high,Never mind baby, mother is by;Crow and caper, caper and crow,There little baby, there you go;Up to the ceiling, down to the ground,Backwards and forwards, round and round;Dance little baby, and mother shall sing,With the merry coral, ding, ding, ding."
152,"2018-02-27 21:10:56","The happy household","Eugene Field","It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks,That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes;Then it's sleep no more for baby, and it's sleep no more for me,For, when he wants his dinner, why it's dinner it must be!And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado,While gran'ma laughs,And gran'pa laughs,And wife, she laughs,And I - well, I laugh, too!You'd think, to see us carrying on about that little tad,That, like as not, that baby was the first we'd ever had;But, sakes alive! he isn't, yet we people make a fussAs if the only baby in the world had come to us!And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do,Gran'ma, she laughs,Gran'pa, he laughs,Wife, she laughs,And I, of course, laugh, too!But once - a likely spell ago - when that poor little chickFrom teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick,You wouldn't know us people as the same that went aboutA-feelin' good all over, just to hear him crow and shout;And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he'd pull him through,Old gran'ma cried,And gran'pa cried,And wife, she cried,And I - yes, I cried, too!It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place,With his everlastin' crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face;The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere,And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care!No matter what our trouble is, when he begins to coo,Old gran'ma laughs,And gran'pa laughs,Wife, she laughs,And I - you bet, I laugh, too!"
153,"2018-02-27 21:10:57","The Ballad Of Moll Magee","William Butler Yeats","Come round me, little childer;There, don't fling stones at meBecause I mutter as I go;But pity Moll Magee.My man was a poor fisherWith shore lines in the say;My work was saltin' herringsThe whole of the long day.And sometimes from the Saltin' shedI scarce could drag my feet,Under the blessed moonlight,Along thc pebbly street.I'd always been but weakly,And my baby was just born;A neighbour minded her by day,I minded her till morn.I lay upon my baby;Ye little childer dear,I looked on my cold babyWhen the morn grew frosty and clear.A weary woman sleeps so hard!My man grew red and pale,And gave me money, and bade me goTo my own place, Kinsale.He drove me out and shut the door.And gave his curse to me;I went away in silence,No neighbour could I see.The windows and the doors were shut,One star shone faint and green,The little straws were turnin roundAcross the bare boreen.I went away in silence:Beyond old Martin's byreI saw a kindly neighbourBlowin' her mornin' fire.She drew from me my story -My money's all used up,And still, with pityin', scornin' eye,She gives me bite and sup.She says my man will surely comeAnd fetch me home agin;But always, as I'm movin' round,Without doors or within,Pilin' the wood or pilin' the turf,Or goin' to the well,I'm thinkin' of my babyAnd keenin' to mysel'.And Sometimes I am sure she knowsWhen, openin' wide His door,God lights the stats, His candles,And looks upon the poor.So now, ye little childer,Ye won't fling stones at me;But gather with your shinin' looksAnd pity Moll Magee."
154,"2018-02-27 21:10:59",Babylon,"Robert Graves","The child alone a poet is:Spring and Fairyland are his.Truth and Reason show but dim,And all’s poetry with him. Rhyme and music flow in plentyFor the lad of one-and-twenty, But Spring for him is no more now Than daisies to a munching cow; Just a cheery pleasant season, Daisy buds to live at ease on.He’s forgotten how he smiled And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,Or wept one evening secretly For April’s glorious misery. Wisdom made him old and waryBanishing the Lords of Faery. Wisdom made a breach and battered Babylon to bits: she scattered To the hedges and ditches All our nursery gnomes and witches.Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves, Drag their treasures from the shelves. Jack the Giant-killer’s gone, Mother Goose and Oberon, Bluebeard and King Solomon.Robin, and Red Riding Hood Take together to the wood, And Sir Galahad lies hid In a cave with Captain Kidd. None of all the magic hosts,None remain but a few ghosts Of timorous heart, to linger on Weeping for lost Babylon."
155,"2018-02-27 21:11:03","Cradle Song","Lord Alfred Tennyson","What does little birdie sayIn her nest at peep of day?Let me fly, says little birdie,Mother, let me fly away.Birdie, rest a little longer,Till thy little wings are stronger.So she rests a little longer,Then she flies away.What does little baby say,In her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie,Let me rise and fly away.Baby, sleep a little longer,Till thy little limbs are stronger.If she sleeps a little longer,Baby too shall fly away."
156,"2018-02-27 21:11:07","Sea Dreams","Lord Alfred Tennyson","A city clerk, but gently born and bred;His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child--One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old:They, thinking that her clear germander eyeDroopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom,Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea:For which his gains were dock'd, however small:Small were his gains, and hard his work; besides,Their slender household fortunes (for the manHad risk'd his little) like the little thrift,Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep:And oft, when sitting all alone, his faceWould darken, as he cursed his credulousness,And that one unctuous mount which lured him, rogue,To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine.Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast,All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave,At close of day; slept, woke, and went the next,The Sabbath, pious variers from the church,To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer,Not preaching simple Christ to simple men,Announced the coming doom, and fulminatedAgainst the scarlet woman and her creed:For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd`Thus, thus with violence,' ev'n as if he heldThe Apocalyptic millstone, and himselfWere that great Angel; `Thus with violenceShall Babylon be cast into the sea;Then comes the close.' The gentle-hearted wifeSat shuddering at the ruin of a world;He at his own: but when the wordy stormHad ended, forth they came and paced the shore,Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves,Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed(The sootflake of so many a summer stillClung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea.So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff,Lingering about the thymy promontories,Till all the sails were darken'd in the west,And rosed in the east: then homeward and to bed:Where she, who kept a tender Christian hopeHaunting a holy text, and still to thatReturning, as the bird returns, at night,`Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,'Said, `Love, forgive him:' but he did not speak;And silenced by that silence lay the wife,Remembering her dear Lord who died for all,And musing on the little lives of men,And how they mar this little by their feuds. But while the two were sleeping, a full tideRose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocksTouching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke,And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fellIn vast sea-cataracts--ever and anonDead claps of thunder from within the cliffsHeard thro' the living roar. At this the babe,Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and wokeThe mother, and the father suddenly cried,`A wreck, a wreck!' then turn'd, and groaning said, `Forgive! How many will say, ""forgive,"" and findA sort of absolution in the soundTo hate a little longer! No; the sinThat neither God nor man can well forgive,Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once.Is it so true that second thoughts are best?Not first, and third, which are a riper first?Too ripe, too late! they come too late for use.Ah love, there surely lives in man and beastSomething divine to warn them of their foes:And such a sense, when first I fronted him,Said, ""trust him not;"" but after, when I cameTo know him more, I lost it, knew him less;Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity;Sat at his table; drank his costly wines;Made more and more allowance for his talk;Went further, fool! and trusted him with all,All my poor scrapings from a dozen yearsOf dust and deskwork: there is no such mine,None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold,Not making. Ruin'd! ruin'd! the sea roarsRuin: a fearful night!' `Not fearful; fair,'Said the good wife, `if every star in heavenCan make it fair: you do but bear the tide.Had you ill dreams?' `O yes,' he said, `I dream'dOf such a tide swelling toward the land,And I from out the boundless outer deepSwept with it to the shore, and enter'd oneOf those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs.I thought the motion of the boundless deepBore through the cave, and I was heaved upon itIn darkness: then I saw one lovely starLarger and larger. ""What a world,"" I thought,""To live in!"" but in moving I foundOnly the landward exit of the cave,Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond:And near the light a giant woman sat,All over earthy, like a piece of earth,A pickaxe in her hand: then out I sliptInto a land all of sun and blossom, treesAs high as heaven, and every bird that sings:And here the night-light flickering in my eyesAwoke me.' `That was then your dream,' she said,`Not sad, but sweet.' `So sweet, I lay,' said he,`And mused upon it, drifting up the streamIn fancy, till I slept again, and piecedThe broken vision; for I dream'd that stillThe motion of the great deep bore me on,And that the woman walk'd upon the brink:I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it:""It came,"" she said, ""by working in the mines:""O then to ask her of my shares, I thought;And ask'd; but not a word; she shook her head.And then the motion of the current ceased,And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'dA mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns;But she with her strong feet up the steep hillTrod out a path: I follow'd; and at topShe pointed seaward: there a fleet of glass,That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me,Sailing along before a gloomy cloudThat not one moment ceased to thunder, pastIn sunshine: right across its track there lay,Down in the water, a long reef of gold,Or what seem'd gold: and I was glad at firstTo think that in our often-ransack'd worldStill so much gold was left; and then I fear'dLest the gay navy there should splinter on it,And fearing waved my arm to warn them off;An idle signal, for the brittle fleet(I thought I could have died to save it) near'd,Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I woke,I heard the clash so clearly. Now I seeMy dream was Life; the woman honest Work;And my poor venture but a fleet of glassWreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.' `Nay,' said the kindly wife to comfort him,`You raised your arm, you tumbled down and brokeThe glass with little Margaret's medicine it it;And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream:A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.' `No trifle,' groan'd the husband; `yesterdayI met him suddenly in the street, and ask'dThat which I ask'd the woman in my dream.Like her, he shook his head. ""Show me the books!""He dodged me with a long and loose account.""The books, the books!"" but he, he could not wait,Bound on a matter he of life and death:When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten)Were open'd, I should find he meant me well;And then began to bloat himself, and oozeAll over with the fat affectionate smileThat makes the widow lean. ""My dearest friend,Have faith, have faith! We live by faith,"" said he;""And all things work together for the goodOf those""--it makes me sick to quote him--lastGript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went.I stood like one that had received a blow:I found a hard friend in his loose accounts,A loose one in the hard grip of his hand,A curse in his God-bless-you: then my eyesPursued him down the street, and far away,Among the honest shoulders of the crowd,Read rascal in the motions of his back,And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee.' `Was he so bound, poor soul?' said the good wife;`So are we all: but do not call him, love,Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive.His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his friendWrongs himself more, and ever bears aboutA silent court of justice in his breast,Himself the judge and jury, and himselfThe prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd:And that drags down his life: then comes what comesHereafter: and he meant, he said he meant,Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well.' ` ""With all his conscience and one eye askew""--Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learnA man is likewise counsel for himself,Too often, in that silent court of yours--""With all his conscience and one eye askew,So false, he partly took himself for true;Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry,Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye;Who, never naming God except for gain,So never took that useful name in vain;Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool,And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool;Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged,And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged;And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the restArising, did his holy oily best,Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven,To spread the Word by which himself had thriven.""How like you this old satire?' `Nay,' she said`I loathe it: he had never kindly heart,Nor ever cared to better his own kind,Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it.But will you hear MY dream, for I had oneThat altogether went to music? StillIt awed me.' Then she told it, having dream'dOf that same coast. --But round the North, a light,A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay,And ever in it a low musical noteSwell'd up and died; and, as it swell'd, a ridgeOf breaker issued from the belt, and stillGrew with the growing note, and when the noteHad reach'd a thunderous fullness, on those cliffsBroke, mixt with awful light (the same as thatLiving within the belt) whereby she sawThat all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more,But huge cathedral fronts of every age,Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see.One after one: and then the great ridge drew,Lessening to the lessening music, back,And past into the belt and swell'd againSlowly to music: ever when it brokeThe statues, king or saint, or founder fell;Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin leftCame men and women in dark clusters round,Some crying, ""Set them up! they shall not fall!""And others ""Let them lie, for they have fall'n.""And still they strove and wrangled: and she grievedIn her strange dream, she knew not why, to findTheir wildest wailings never out of tuneWith that sweet note; and ever as their shrieksRan highest up the gamut, that great waveReturning, while none mark'd it, on the crowdBroke, mixt with awful light, and show'd their eyesGlaring, and passionate looks, and swept awayThe men of flesh and blood, and men of stone,To the waste deeps together. `Then I fixtMy wistful eyes on two fair images,Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars,--The Virgin Mother standing with her childHigh up on one of those dark minster-fronts--Till she began to totter, and the childClung to the mother, and sent out a cryWhich mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke,And my dream awed me:--well--but what are dreams?Yours came but from the breaking of a glass,And mine but from the crying of a child.' `Child? No!' said he, `but this tide's roar, and his,Our Boanerges with his threats of doom,And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms(Altho' I grant but little music there)Went both to make your dream: but if there wereA music harmonizing our wild cries,Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about,Why, that would make our passions far too likeThe discords dear to the musician. No--One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven:True Devils with no ear, they howl in tuneWith nothing but the Devil!' `""True"" indeed!One of our town, but later by an hourHere than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore;While you were running down the sands, and madeThe dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap,Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news.Why were you silent when I spoke to-night?I had set my heart on your forgiving himBefore you knew. We MUST forgive the dead.' `Dead! who is dead?' `The man your eye pursued.A little after you had parted with him,He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.' `Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had heTo die of? dead!' `Ah, dearest, if there beA devil in man, there is an angel too,And if he did that wrong you charge him with,His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice(You spoke so loud) has roused the child again.Sleep, little birdie, sleep! will she not sleepWithout her ""little birdie?"" well then, sleep,And I will sing you ""birdie.""' Saying this,The woman half turn'd round from him she loved,Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the nightHer other, found (for it was close beside)And half embraced the basket cradle-headWith one soft arm, which, like the pliant boughThat moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'dThe cradle, while she sang this baby song. What does the little birdie sayIn her nest at peep of day?Let me fly, says little birdie,Mother, let me fly away.Birdie, rest a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger.So she rests a little longer,Then she flies away. What does little baby say,In her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie,Let me rise and fly away.Baby, sleep a little longer,Till the little limbs are stronger.If she sleeps a little longer,Baby too shall fly away. `She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep.He also sleeps--another sleep than ours.He can do no more wrong: forgive him, dear,And I shall sleep the sounder!' Then the man,`His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come.Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound:I do forgive him!' `Thanks, my love,' she said,`Your own will be the sweeter,' and they slept."
157,"2018-02-27 21:11:10",Babyhood,"Algernon Charles Swinburne","A baby shines as brightIf winter or if May beOn eyes that keep in sightA baby.Though dark the skies or grey be,It fills our eyes with light,If midnight or midday be.Love hails it, day and night,The sweetest thing that may beYet cannot praise arightA baby.II.All heaven, in every baby born,All absolute of earthly leaven,Reveals itself, though man may scornAll heaven.Yet man might feel all sin forgiven,All grief appeased, all pain outworn,By this one revelation given.Soul, now forget thy burdens borne:Heart, be thy joys now seven times seven:Love shows in light more bright than mornAll heaven.III.What likeness may define, and stray notFrom truth's exactest way,A baby's beauty? Love can say notWhat likeness may.The Mayflower loveliest held in MayOf all that shine and stay notLaughs not in rosier disarray.Sleek satin, swansdown, buds that play notAs yet with winds that play,Would fain be matched with this, and may not:What likeness may?IV.Rose, round whose bedDawn's cloudlets close,Earth's brightest-bredRose!No song, love knows,May praise the headYour curtain shows.Ere sleep has fled,The whole child glowsOne sweet live redRose."
158,"2018-02-27 21:11:16","Etude Realiste","Algernon Charles Swinburne","A Baby's feet, like sea-shells pink,Might tempt, should heaven see meet,An angel's lips to kiss, we think,A baby's feet.Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heatThey stretch and spread and winkTheir ten soft buds that part and meet.No flower-bells that expand and shrinkGleam half so heavenly sweetAs shine on life's untrodden brinkA baby's feet.II.A baby's hands, like rosebuds furledWhence yet no leaf expands,Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,A baby's hands.Then, fast as warriors grip their brandsWhen battle's bolt is hurled,They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.No rosebuds yet by dawn impearledMatch, even in loveliest lands,The sweetest flowers in all the world -A baby's hands.III.A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,Ere lips learn words or sighs,Bless all things bright enough to winA baby's eyes.Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies,And sleep flows out and in,Sees perfect in them Paradise.Their glance might cast out pain and sin,Their speech make dumb the wise,By mute glad godhead felt withinA baby's eyes."
159,"2018-02-27 21:11:20","Ballade to Our Lady of Czestochowa","Hilaire Belloc","ILady and Queen and Mystery manifoldAnd very Regent of the untroubled sky,Whom in a dream St. Hilda did beholdAnd heard a woodland music passing by:You shall receive me when the clouds are highWith evening and the sheep attain the fold.This is the faith that I have held and hold,And this is that in which I mean to die.IISteep are the seas and savaging and coldIn broken waters terrible to try;And vast against the winter night the wold,And harbourless for any sail to lie.But you shall lead me to the lights, and IShall hymn you in a harbour story told.This is the faith that I have held and hold,And this is that in which I mean to die.IIIHelp of the half-defeated, House of gold,Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory;Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled,The Battler's vision and the World's reply.You shall restore me, O my last Ally,To vengence and the glories of the bold.This is the faith that I have held and hold,And this is that in which I mean to die.EnvoiPrince of the degradations, bought and sold,These verses, written in your crumbling sty,Proclaim the faith that I have held and holdAnd publish that in which I mean to die."
160,"2018-02-27 21:11:22","Ballad of the Army Carts","Tu Fu","The carts squeak and trundle, the horses whinny, the conscripts go by, eachwith a bow and arrows at his waist. Their fathers, mothers, wives, and childrenrun along beside them to see them off. The Hsien-yang Bridge cannot be seen fordust. They pluck at the men's clothes, stamp their feet, or stand in the wayweeping. The sound of their weeping seems to mount up to the blue sky above. Apasser-by questions the conscripts, and the conscripts reply:``They're always mobilizing now! There are some of us who went north atfifteen to garrison the River and who are still, at forty, being sent to theMilitary Settlements in the west. When we left as lads, the village headman hadto tie our head-cloths for us. We came back white-haired, but still we have togo back for frontier duty! On those frontier posts enough blood has flowed tofill the sea; but the Martial Emperor's dreams of expansion remain unsatisfied.Haven't you heard, sir, in our land of Han, throughout the two hundredprefectures east of the mountains briers and brambles are growing in thousandsof little hamlets; and though many a sturdy wife turns her own hand at thehoeing and ploughing, the crops grow just anywhere, and you can't see where onefield ends and the next begins? And it's even worse for the men from Ch'in.Because they make such good fighters, they are driven about this way and thatlike so many dogs or chickens.``Though you are good enough to ask us, sir, it's not for the likes ofus to complain. But take this winter, now. The Kuan-hsi troops are not beingdemobilized. The District Officers press for the land-tax, but where is it tocome from? I really believe it's a misfortune to have sons. It's actuallybetter to have a daughter. If you have a daughter, you can at least marry heroff to one of the neighbors; but a son is born only to end up lying in thegrass somewhere, dead and unburied. Why look, sir, on the shores of the Kokonorthe bleached bones have lain for many a long year, but no one has ever gatheredthem up. The new ghosts complain and the old ghosts weep, and under the greyand dripping sky the air is full of their baleful twitterings.''"
161,"2018-02-27 21:11:25","Ballad of the Old Cypress","Tu Fu","In front of the temple of Chu-ko Liang there is an old cypress. Its branchesare like green bronze; its roots like rocks; around its great girth of fortyspans its rimy bark withstands the washing of the rain. Its jet-colored toprises two thousand feet to greet the sky. Prince and statesman have long sincepaid their debt to time; but the tree continues to be cherished among men. Whenthe clouds come, continuous vapors link it with the mists of the long WuGorge; and when the moon appears, the cypress tree shares the chill of theSnowy Mountains' whiteness.I remember a year or so ago, where the road wound east round my BrocadeRiver pavilion, the First Ruler and Chu-ko Liang shared the same shrine. There,too, were towering cypresses, on the ancient plain outside the city. The paint-work of the temple's dark interior gleamed dully through derelict doors andwindows. But this cypress here, though it holds its ground well, clinging withwide-encompassing, snake-like hold, yet, because of its lonely height risinginto the gloom of the sky, meets much of the wind's fierce blast. Nothing butthe power of Divine Providence could have kept it standing for so long; itsstraightness must be the work of the Creator himself! If a great hall hadcollapsed and beams for it were needed, ten thousand oxen might turn theirheads inquiringly to look at such a mountain of a load. But it is alreadymarvel enough to astonish the world, without any need to undergo a craftsman'sembellishing. It has never refused the axe: there is simply no one who couldcarry it away if it were felled. Its bitter heart has not escaped the ants; butthere are always phoenixes roosting in its scented leaves. Men of ambition, andyou who dwell unseen, do not cry out in despair! From of old the really greathas never been found a use for"
162,"2018-02-27 21:11:29","The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly","James Joyce","Have you heard of one Humpty DumptyHow he fell with a roll and a rumbleAnd curled up like Lord Olofa CrumpleBy the butt of the Magazine Wall, (Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall, Hump, helmet and all?He was one time our King of the CastleNow he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His WorshipTo the penal jail of Mountjoy (Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy! Jail him and joy.He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother usSlow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,Openair love and religion's reform, (Chorus) And religious reform, Hideous in form.Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,Like the bumping bull of the CassidysAll your butter is in your horns. (Chorus) His butter is in his horns. Butter his horns!(Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt on ye,Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!Balbaccio, balbuccio!We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox and china chambersUniversally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him.When Chimpden first took the floor (Chorus) With his bucketshop store Down Bargainweg, Lower.So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuousBut soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumperyAnd 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited companyWith the bailiff's bom at the door, (Chorus) Bimbam at the door. Then he'll bum no more.Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our islandThe hooker of that hammerfast vikingAnd Gall's curse on the day when Eblana baySaw his black and tan man-o'-war. (Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war On the harbour bar.Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampinyFingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse BonifaceThok's min gammelhole Norveegickers monikerOg as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod. (Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod. He is, begod.Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann, the rhyming rann!It was during some fresh water garden pumpingOr, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeysThat our heavyweight heathen HumphareyMade bold a maid to woo (Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo! The general lost her maidenloo!He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.Begob, he's the crux of the catalogueOf our antediluvial zoo, (Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo. Noah's larks, good as noo.He was joulting by Wellinton's monumentOur rotorious hippopopotamunsWhen some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibusAnd he caught his death of fusiliers, (Chorus) With his rent in his rears. Give him six years.'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor childrenBut look out for his missus legitimate!When that frew gets a grip of old EarwickerWon't there be earwigs on the green? (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green, The largest ever you seen. Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meetingFor to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery.And we'll bury him down in OxmanstownAlong with the devil and the Danes, (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes, And all their remains.And not all the king's men nor his horsesWill resurrect his corpusFor there's no true spell in Connacht or hell (bis) That's able to raise a Cain."
163,"2018-02-27 21:11:32","Border Ballad","Sir Walter Scott","March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order! March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. Many a banner spread,Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story. Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order; England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border."
164,"2018-02-27 21:11:34","Donica - A Ballad","Robert Southey","Author Note: In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unfounded depth, the water black and the fish thereinvery distateful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, whichforeshew either the death of the Governor, or some prime officerbelonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape ofan harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water.It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walkedin her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but thatshe was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though verysparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which wasthe only sign of death. At length a Magician coming by where she wasthen in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her hesaid, ""fair Maids, why keep you company with the dead Virgin whom yousuppose to be alive?"" when taking away the magic charm which was tiedunder her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion.The following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be foundin the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels; a Poem by ThomasHeywood, printed in folio by Adam Islip, 1635..................High on a rock, whose castled shadeDarken'd the lake below,In ancient strength majestic stoodThe towers of Arlinkow.The fisher in the lake belowDurst never cast his net,Nor ever swallow in its wavesHer passing wings would wet.The cattle from its ominous banksIn wild alarm would run,Tho' parched with thirst and faint beneathThe summer's scorching sun.For sometimes when no passing breezeThe long lank sedges waved,All white with foam and heaving highIts deafening billows raved;And when the tempest from its baseThe rooted pine would shake,The powerless storm unruffling sweptAcross the calm dead lake.And ever then when Death drew nearThe house of Arlinkow,Its dark unfathom'd depths did sendStrange music from below.The Lord of Arlinkow was old,One only child had he,Donica was the Maiden's nameAs fair as fair might be.A bloom as bright as opening mornFlush'd o'er her clear white cheek,The music of her voice was mild,Her full dark eyes were meek.Far was her beauty known, for noneSo fair could Finland boast,Her parents loved the Maiden much,Young EBERHARD loved her most.Together did they hope to treadThe pleasant path of life,For now the day drew near to makeDonica Eberhard's wife.The eve was fair and mild the air,Along the lake they stray;The eastern hill reflected brightThe fading tints of day.And brightly o'er the water stream'dThe liquid radiance wide;Donica's little dog ran onAnd gambol'd at her side.Youth, Health, and Love bloom'd on her cheek,Her full dark eyes expressIn many a glance to EberhardHer soul's meek tenderness.Nor sound was heard, nor passing galeSigh'd thro' the long lank sedge,The air was hushed, no little waveDimpled the water's edge.Sudden the unfathom'd lake sent forthStrange music from beneath,And slowly o'er the waters sail'dThe solemn sounds of Death.As the deep sounds of Death arose,Donica's cheek grew pale,And in the arms of EberhardThe senseless Maiden fell.Loudly the youth in terror shriek'd,And loud he call'd for aid,And with a wild and eager lookGaz'd on the death-pale Maid.But soon again did better thoughtsIn Eberhard arise,And he with trembling hope beheldThe Maiden raise her eyes.And on his arm reclin'd she movedWith feeble pace and slow,And soon with strength recover'd reach'dYet never to Donica's cheekReturn'd the lively hue,Her cheeks were deathy, white, and wan,Her lips a livid blue.Her eyes so bright and black of yoreWere now more black and bright,And beam'd strange lustre in her faceSo deadly wan and white.The dog that gambol'd by her side,And lov'd with her to stray,Now at his alter'd mistress howl'dAnd fled in fear away.Yet did the faithful EberhardNot love the Maid the less;He gaz'd with sorrow, but he gaz'dWith deeper tenderness.And when he found her health unharm'dHe would not brook delay,But press'd the not unwilling MaidTo fix the bridal day.And when at length it came, with joyThey hail'd the bridal day,And onward to the house of GodThey went their willing way.And as they at the altar stoodAnd heard the sacred rite,The hallowed tapers dimly stream'dA pale sulphureous light.And as the Youth with holy warmthHer hand in his did hold,Sudden he felt Donica's handGrow deadly damp and cold.And loudly did he shriek, for lo!A Spirit met his view,And Eberhard in the angel formHis own Donica knew.That instant from her earthly frameHowling the Daemon fled,And at the side of EberhardThe livid form fell dead."
165,"2018-02-27 21:11:35","Mary - A Ballad","Robert Southey","Author Note: The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I haveadopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedlypopular.I.Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyesSeem a heart overcharged to express?She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs,She never complains, but her silence impliesThe composure of settled distress.II.No aid, no compassion the Maniac will seek,Cold and hunger awake not her care:Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleakOn her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheekHas the deathy pale hue of despair.III.Yet chearful and happy, nor distant the day,Poor Mary the Maniac has been;The Traveller remembers who journeyed this wayNo damsel so lovely, no damsel so gayAs Mary the Maid of the Inn.IV.Her chearful address fill'd the guests with delightAs she welcomed them in with a smile:Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,And Mary would walk by the Abbey at nightWhen the wind whistled down the dark aisle.V.She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,And she hoped to be happy for life;But Richard was idle and worthless, and theyWho knew him would pity poor Mary and sayThat she was too good for his wife.VI.'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,And fast were the windows and door;Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,And smoking in silence with tranquil delightThey listen'd to hear the wind roar.VII.""Tis pleasant,"" cried one, ""seated by the fire side""To hear the wind whistle without.""""A fine night for the Abbey!"" his comrade replied,""Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried""Who should wander the ruins about.VIII.""I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear""The hoarse ivy shake over my head;""And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,""Some ugly old Abbot's white spirit appear,""For this wind might awaken the dead!""IX.""I'll wager a dinner,"" the other one cried,""That Mary would venture there now.""""Then wager and lose!"" with a sneer he replied,""I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,""And faint if she saw a white cow.""X.""Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?""His companion exclaim'd with a smile;""I shall win, for I know she will venture there now,""And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough""From the elder that grows in the aisle.""XI.With fearless good humour did Mary comply,And her way to the Abbey she bent;The night it was dark, and the wind it was highAnd as hollowly howling it swept thro' the skyShe shiver'd with cold as she went.XII.O'er the path so well known still proceeded the MaidWhere the Abbey rose dim on the sight,Thro' the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraidYet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shadeSeem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.XIII.All around her was silent, save when the rude blastHowl'd dismally round the old pile;Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past,And arrived in the innermost ruin at lastWhere the elder tree grew in the aisle.XIV.Well-pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew nearAnd hastily gather'd the bough:When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear,She paus'd, and she listen'd, all eager to hear,Aud her heart panted fearfully now.XV.The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,She listen'd,--nought else could she hear.The wind ceas'd, her heart sunk in her bosom with dreadFor she heard in the ruins distinctly the treadOf footsteps approaching her near.XVI.Behind a wide column half breathless with fearShe crept to conceal herself there:That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appearAnd between them a corpse did they bear.XVII.Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!Again the rough wind hurried by,--It blew off the hat of the one, and beholdEven close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd,--She felt, and expected to die.XVIII.""Curse the hat!"" he exclaims. ""Nay come on and first hide""The dead body,"" his comrade replies.She beheld them in safety pass on by her side,She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,And fast thro' the Abbey she flies.XIX.She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,She gazed horribly eager around,Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more,And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floorUnable to utter a sound.XX.Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,For a moment the hat met her view;--Her eyes from that object convulsively start,For--oh God what cold horror then thrill'd thro' her heart,When the name of her Richard she knew!XXI.Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard byHis gibbet is now to be seen.Not far from the road it engages the eye,The Traveller beholds it, and thinks with a sighOf poor Mary the Maid of the Inn."
166,"2018-02-27 21:11:40","Rudiger - A Ballad","Robert Southey","Author Note: Divers Princes and Noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fairPalace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, they beheld a boat orsmall barge make toward the shore, drawn by a Swan in a silver chain,the one end fastened about her neck, the other to the vessel; and in itan unknown soldier, a man of a comely personage and graceful presence,who stept upon the shore; which done, the boat guided by the Swan lefthim, and floated down the river. This man fell afterward in league witha fair gentlewoman, married her, and by her had many children. Aftersome years, the same Swan came with the same barge into the same place;the soldier entering into it, was carried thence the way he came, leftwife, children and family, and was never seen amongst them after.Now who can judge this to be other than one of those spirits that arenamed Incubi? says Thomas Heywood. I have adopted his story, but not hissolution, making the unknown soldier not an evil spirit, but one who hadpurchased happiness of a malevolent being, by the promised sacrifice ofhis first-born child..................Bright on the mountain's heathy slopeThe day's last splendors shineAnd rich with many a radiant hueGleam gayly on the Rhine.And many a one from Waldhurst's wallsAlong the river stroll'd,As ruffling o'er the pleasant streamThe evening gales came cold.So as they stray'd a swan they sawSail stately up and strong,And by a silver chain she drewA little boat along,Whose streamer to the gentle breezeLong floating fluttered light,Beneath whose crimson canopyThere lay reclin'd a knight.With arching crest and swelling breastOn sail'd the stately swanAnd lightly up the parting tideThe little boat came on.And onward to the shore they drewAnd leapt to land the knight,And down the stream the swan-drawn boatFell soon beyond the sight.Was never a Maid in Waldhurst's wallsMight match with Margaret,Her cheek was fair, her eyes were dark,Her silken locks like jet.And many a rich and noble youthHad strove to win the fair,But never a rich or noble youthCould rival Rudiger.At every tilt and turney heStill bore away the prize,For knightly feats superior stillAnd knightly courtesies.His gallant feats, his looks, his love,Soon won the willing fair,And soon did Margaret becomeThe wife of Rudiger.Like morning dreams of happinessFast roll'd the months away,For he was kind and she was kindAnd who so blest as they?Yet Rudiger would sometimes sitAbsorb'd in silent thoughtAnd his dark downward eye would seemWith anxious meaning fraught;But soon he rais'd his looks againAnd smil'd his cares eway,And mid the hall of gaietyWas none like him so gay.And onward roll'd the waining months,The hour appointed came,And Margaret her RudigerHail'd with a father's name.But silently did RudigerThe little infant see,And darkly on the babe he gaz'dAnd very sad was he.And when to bless the little babeThe holy Father came,To cleanse the stains of sin awayIn Christ's redeeming name,Then did the cheek of RudigerAssume a death-pale hue,And on his clammy forehead stoodThe cold convulsive dew;And faltering in his speech he badeThe Priest the rites delay,Till he could, to right health restor'd,Enjoy the festive day.When o'er the many-tinted skyHe saw the day decline,He called upon his MargaretTo walk beside the Rhine.""And we will take the little babe,""For soft the breeze that blows,""And the wild murmurs of the stream""Will lull him to repose.""So forth together did they go,The evening breeze was mild,And Rudiger upon his armDid pillow the sweet child.And many a one from Waldhurst's wallsAlong the banks did roam,But soon the evening wind came cold,And all betook them home.Yet Rudiger in silent moodAlong the banks would roam,Nor aught could Margaret prevailTo turn his footsteps home.""Oh turn thee--turn thee Rudiger,""The rising mists behold,""The evening wind is damp and chill,""The little babe is cold!""""Now hush thee--hush thee Margaret,""The mists will do no harm,""And from the wind the little babe""Lies sheltered on my arm.""""Oh turn thee--turn thee Rudiger,""Why onward wilt thou roam?""The moon is up, the night is cold,""And we are far from home.""He answered not, for now he sawA Swan come sailing strong,And by a silver chain she drewA little boat along.To shore they came, and to the boatFast leapt he with the child,And in leapt Margaret--breathless nowAnd pale with fear and wild.With arching crest and swelling breastOn sail'd the stately swan,And lightly down the rapid tideThe little boat went on.The full-orb'd moon that beam'd aroundPale splendor thro' the night,Cast through the crimson canopyA dim-discoloured light.And swiftly down the hurrying streamIn silence still they sail,And the long streamer fluttering fastFlapp'd to the heavy gale.And he was mute in sullen thoughtAnd she was mute with fear,Nor sound but of the parting tideBroke on the listening ear.The little babe began to cryAnd waked his mother's care,""Now give to me the little babe""For God's sake, Rudiger!""""Now hush thee, hush thee Margaret!""Nor my poor heart distress--""I do but pay perforce the price""Of former happiness.""And hush thee too my little babe,""Thy cries so feeble cease:""Lie still, lie still;--a little while""And thou shalt be at peace.""So as he spake to land they drew,And swift he stept on shore,And him behind did MargaretClose follow evermore.It was a place all desolate,Nor house nor tree was there,And there a rocky mountain roseBarren, and bleak, and bare.And at its base a cavern yawn'd,No eye its depth might view,For in the moon-beam shining roundThat darkness darker grew.Cold Horror crept thro' Margaret's blood,Her heart it paus'd with fear,When Rudiger approach'd the caveAnd cried, ""lo I am here!""A deep sepulchral sound the caveReturn'd ""lo I am here!""And black from out the cavern gloomTwo giant arms appear.And Rudiger approach'd and heldThe little infant nigh;Then Margaret shriek'd, and gather'd thenNew powers from agony.And round the baby fast and firmHer trembling arms she folds,And with a strong convulsive graspThe little infant holds.""Now help me, Jesus!"" loud she cries.And loud on God she calls;Then from the grasp of RudigerThe little infant falls.And now he shriek'd, for now his frameThe huge black arms clasp'd round,And dragg'd the wretched RudigerAdown the dark profound."
167,"2018-02-27 21:11:41","A Ballad Of The Trees And The Master","Sidney Lanier","Into the woods my Master went,Clean forspent, forspent.Into the woods my Master came,Forspent with love and shame.But the olives they were not blind to Him,The little gray leaves were kind to Him:The thorn-tree had a mind to HimWhen into the woods He came.Out of the woods my Master went,And He was well content.Out of the woods my Master came,Content with death and shame.When Death and Shame would woo Him last,From under the trees they drew Him last:'Twas on a tree they slew Him -- lastWhen out of the woods He came."
168,"2018-02-27 21:11:46","Little Ballads Of Timely Warning; II: On Malicious Cruelty To Harmless Creatures","Ellis Parker Butler","The cruelty of P. L. Brown—(He had ten toes as good as mine)Was known to every one in town,And, if he never harmed a noun,He loved to make verbs shriek and whine.The “To be” family’s just complaints—(Brown had ten toes as good as mine)Made Brown cast off the last restraints:He smashed the “Is nots” into “Ain’ts”And kicked both mood and tense supine.Infinitives were Brown’s dislike—(Brown, as I said, had ten good toes)And he would pinch and shake and strikeInfinitives, or, with a pike,Prod them and then laugh at their woes.At length this Brown more cruel grew—(Ten toes, all good ones, then had Brown)And to his woodshed door he drewA young infinitive and threwThe poor, meek creature roughly down,And while the poor thing weakly flopped,Brown (ten good toes he had, the brute!)Got out his chopping block and droppedThe martyr on it and then proppedHis victim firmly with his boot.He raised his axe! He brandished it!(Ye gods of grammar, interpose!)He brought it down full force all fitThe poor infinitive to split—* * * * *(Brown after that had but six toes! WarningInfinitives, by this we see.Should not he split too recklessly."
169,"2018-02-27 21:11:50","Little Ballads Of Timely Warning; III: On Laziness And Its Resultant Ills","Ellis Parker Butler","There was a man in New York City(His name was George Adolphus Knight)So soft of heart he wept with pityTo see our language and its plight.He mourned to see it sorely goadedWith silent letters left and right;These from his own name he unloadedAnd wrote it Georg Adolfus Nit.Six other men in that same cityWho longed to see a Spelling HeavenFormed of themselves a strong committeeAnd asked Georg Nit to make it seven.He joined the other six with pleasure,Proud such important men to know,Agreeing that their first great measureShould be to shorten the word though.But G. Adolfus Nit was lazy;He dilly-dallied every day;His life was dreamy, slow and hazy,And indolent in every way.On Monday morn at nine preciselyThe six reformers (Nit not there)Prepared to simplify though nicely,And each was eager for his share.Smith bit the h off short and ate it;Griggs from the thoug chewed off the g;Brown snapped off u to masticate it,And tho alone was left for three.Delancy’s teeth broke o off quickly;From th Billings took his t,And then the h, albeit prickly,Was shortly swallowed by McGee.This done, the six lay back in plenty,Well fed, they picked their teeth and smiled,And lazy Nit, about 10:20,Strolled in, as careless as a child.“Well, boys,” he said, “where’s the collation?I’m hungry, let us eat some though.”“All gone!” they said, and then Starvation,(Who is not lazy) laid Nit low.Nit trembled, gasped, and, as the phrase is,Cashed in his checks, gave up his breath,And turned his toes up to the daisies—His laziness had caused his death! WarningSpelling reformers should make haste.If each reformer wants a taste."
170,"2018-02-27 21:11:54","The Ballad Of A Bachelor","Ellis Parker Butler","Listen, ladies, while I singThe ballad of John Henry King.John Henry was a bachelor,His age was thirty-three or four.Two maids for his affection vied,And each desired to be his bride,And bravely did they strive to bringUnto their feet John Henry King.John Henry liked them both so well,To save his life he could not tellWhich he most wished to be his bride,Nor was he able to decide.Fair Kate was jolly, bright, and gay,And sunny as a summer day;Marie was kind, sedate, and sweet,With gentle ways and manners neat.Each was so dear that John confessedHe could not tell which he liked best.He studied them for quite a year,And still found no solution near,And might have studied two years moreHad he not, walking on the shore,Conceived a very simple wayOf ending his prolonged delay--A way in which he might decideWhich of the maids should be his bride.He said, ""I'll toss into the airA dollar, and I'll toss it fair;If heads come up, I'll wed Marie;If tails, fair Kate my bride shall be.""Then from his leather pocket-bookA dollar bright and new he took;He kissed one side for fair Marie,The other side for Kate kissed he.Then in a manner free and fairHe tossed the dollar in the air.""Ye fates,"" he cried, ""pray let this beA lucky throw indeed for me!""The dollar rose, the dollar fell;He watched its whirling transit well,And off some twenty yards or moreThe dollar fell upon the shore.John Henry ran to where it struckTo see which maiden was in luck.But, oh, the irony of fate!Upon its edge the coin stood straight!And there, embedded in the sand,John Henry let the dollar stand!And he will tempt his fate no more,But live and die a bachelor.Thus, ladies, you have heard me singThe ballad of John Henry King."
171,"2018-02-27 21:11:57","The Ballade Of The Automobile","Ellis Parker Butler","When our yacht sails seaward on steady keelAnd the wind is moist with breath of brineAnd our laughter tells of our perfect weal,We may carol the praises of ruby wine;But if, automobiling, my woes combineAnd fuel gives out in my road-machineAnd it's sixteen miles to that home of mine--Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!When our coach rides smoothly on iron-shod wheelWith a deft touch guiding each taut drawn lineAnd the inn ahead holds a royal meal,We may carol the praises of ruby wine;But when, on some long and steep incline,In a manner entirely unforeseenThe motor stops with a last sad whine--Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!When the air is crisp and the brooks congealAnd our sleigh glides on with a speed divineWhile the gay bells echo with peal on peal,We may carol the praises of ruby wine;But when, with perverseness most condign,In the same harsh snowstorm, cold and keen,My auto stops at the six-mile sign--Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!ENVOYWhen yacht or Coach Club fellows dineWe may carol the praises of ruby wine;But when Automobile Clubmen conveneThen ho! For a gallon of gasoline!"
172,"2018-02-27 21:12:00","The Ballade Of The Mistletoe Bough","Ellis Parker Butler","I am standing under the mistletoe, And I smile, but no answering smile repliesFor her haughty glance bids me plainly know That not for me is the thing I prize;Instead, from her coldly scornful eyes, Indifference looks on my barefaced guile;She knows, of course, what my act implies— But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?I stand here, eager, and beam and glow, And she only looks a refined surpriseAs clear and crisp and as cold as snow, And as—Stop! I will never criticise!I know what her cold glance signifies; But I’ll stand just here as I am awhileTill a smile to my pleading look replies— But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?Just look at those lips, now! I claim they show A spirit unmeet under Christmas skies;I claim that such lips on such maidens owe A—something—the custom justifies;I claim that the mistletoe rule applies To her as well as the rank and file;We should meet these things in a cheerful guise— But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?ENVOYThese customs of Christmas may shock the wise, And mistletoe boughs may be out of style,And a kiss be a thing that all maids despise— But look at those lips, do! They hint a smile!"
173,"2018-02-27 21:12:00","25. My Father was a Farmer: A Ballad","Robert Burns","MY father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O;For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O. Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O;My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O:Resolv’d was I at least to try to mend my situation, O. In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune’s favour, O;Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O;Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O. Then sore harass’d and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain delusion, O,I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O;The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O. No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O;To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O. Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O,Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O:No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O;I live to-day as well’s I may, regardless of to-morrow, O. But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O:But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O. When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O,Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen’rally upon me, O;Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur’d folly, O:But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O. All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O."
174,"2018-02-27 21:12:05","391. A Tippling Ballad—When Princes and Prelates, etc.","Robert Burns","WHEN Princes and Prelates, And hot-headed zealots,A’ Europe had set in a low, a low, The poor man lies down, Nor envies a crown,And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow,And comforts himself as he dow. The black-headed eagle, As keen as a beagle,He hunted o’er height and o’er howe, In the braes o’ Gemappe, He fell in a trap,E’en let him come out as he dow, dow, dow,E’en let him come out as he dow.· · · · · · · But truce with commotions, And new-fangled notions,A bumper, I trust you’ll allow; Here’s George our good king, And Charlotte his queen,And lang may they ring as they dow, dow, dow,And lang may they ring as they dow."
175,"2018-02-27 21:12:06","306. Election Ballad at close of Contest for representing the Dumfries Burghs, 1790","Robert Burns","FINTRY, my stay in wordly strife,Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life, Are ye as idle’s I am?Come then, wi’ uncouth kintra fleg,O’er Pegasus I’ll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him. But where shall I go rin a ride,That I may splatter nane beside? I wad na be uncivil:In manhood’s various paths and waysThere’s aye some doytin’ body strays, And I ride like the devil. Thus I break aff wi’ a’ my birr,And down yon dark, deep alley spur, Where Theologics daunder:Alas! curst wi’ eternal fogs,And damn’d in everlasting bogs, As sure’s the creed I’ll blunder! I’ll stain a band, or jaup a gown,Or rin my reckless, guilty crown Against the haly door:Sair do I rue my luckless fate,When, as the Muse an’ Deil wad hae’t, I rade that road before. Suppose I take a spurt, and mixAmang the wilds o’ Politics— Electors and elected,Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!)Septennially a madness touches, Till all the land’s infected. All hail! Drumlanrig’s haughty Grace,Discarded remnant of a race Once godlike-great in story;Thy forbears’ virtues all contrasted,The very name of Douglas blasted, Thine that inverted glory! Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore,But thou hast superadded more, And sunk them in contempt;Follies and crimes have stain’d the name,But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, From aught that’s good exempt! I’ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,Who left the all-important cares Of princes, and their darlings:And, bent on winning borough touns,Came shaking hands wi’ wabster-loons, And kissing barefit carlins. Combustion thro’ our boroughs rode,Whistling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions;As Queensberry blue and buff unfurl’d,And Westerha’ and Hopetoun hurled To every Whig defiance. But cautious Queensberry left the war,Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star, Besides, he hated bleeding:But left behind him heroes bright,Heroes in C&æsarean fight, Or Ciceronian pleading. O for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,To muster o’er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig’s banners;Heroes and heroines commix,All in the field of politics, To win immortal honours. M’Murdo and his lovely spouse,(Th’ enamour’d laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the Loves and Graces:She won each gaping burgess’ heart,While he, sub rosa, played his part Amang their wives and lasses. Craigdarroch led a light-arm’d core,Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, Like Hecla streaming thunder:Glenriddel, skill’d in rusty coins,Blew up each Tory’s dark designs, And bared the treason under. In either wing two champions fought;Redoubted Staig, who set at nought The wildest savage Tory;And Welsh who ne’er yet flinch’d his ground,High-wav’d his magnum-bonum round With Cyclopeian fury. Miller brought up th’ artillery ranks,The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation!While Maxwelton, that baron bold,’Mid Lawson’s port entrench’d his hold, And threaten’d worse damnation. To these what Tory hosts oppos’dWith these what Tory warriors clos’d Surpasses my descriving;Squadrons, extended long and large,With furious speed rush to the charge, Like furious devils driving. What verse can sing, what prose narrate,The butcher deeds of bloody Fate, Amid this mighty tulyie!Grim Horror girn’d, pale Terror roar’d,As Murder at his thrapple shor’d, And Hell mix’d in the brulyie. As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,When lightnings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle;As flames among a hundred woods,As headlong foam from a hundred floods, Such is the rage of Battle. The stubborn Tories dare to die;As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before th’ approaching fellers:The Whigs come on like Ocean’s roar,When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers. Lo, from the shades of Death’s deep night,Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, And think on former daring:The muffled murtherer of CharlesThe Magna Charter flag unfurls, All deadly gules its bearing. Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham; Auld Covenanters shiver—Forgive! forgive! much-wrong’d Montrose!Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes, Thou liv’st on high for ever. Still o’er the field the combat burns,The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; But Fate the word has spoken:For woman’s wit and strength o’man,Alas! can do but what they can; The Tory ranks are broken. O that my een were flowing burns!My voice, a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs’ undoing!That I might greet, that I might cry,While Tories fall, while Tories fly, And furious Whigs pursuing! What Whig but melts for good Sir James,Dear to his country, by the names, Friend, Patron, Benefactor!Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save;And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave; And Stewart, bold as Hector. Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow,And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, And Melville melt in wailing:Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice,And Burke shall sing, “O Prince, arise! Thy power is all-prevailing!” For your poor friend, the Bard, afarHe only hears and sees the war, A cool spectator purely!So, when the storm the forest rends,The robin in the hedge descends, And sober chirps securely. Now, for my friends’ and brethren’s sakes,And for my dear-lov’d Land o’ Cakes, I pray with holy fire:Lord, send a rough-shod troop o’ HellO’er a’ wad Scotland buy or sell, To grind them in the mire!"
176,"2018-02-27 21:12:07","280. The Kirk of Scotland’s Alarm: A Ballad","Robert Burns","ORTHODOX! orthodox, who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:A heretic blast has been blown in the West, That what is no sense must be nonsense,Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense. Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack, To strike evil-doers wi’ terror:To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence, Was heretic, damnable error,Doctor Mac! 1 ’Twas heretic, damnable error. Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing, 2Provost John 3 is still deaf to the Church’s relief, And Orator Bob 4 is its ruin,Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin. D’rymple mild! D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw,Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you, For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa,D’rymple mild! 5 For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa. Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan, Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d;Then out wi’ your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle, And roar ev’ry note of the D—’d.Rumble John! 6 And roar ev’ry note of the D—’d. Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames, There’s a holier chase in your view:I’ll lay on your head, that the pack you’ll soon lead, For puppies like you there’s but few,Simper James! 7 For puppies like you there’s but few. Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny, Unconscious what evils await?With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev’ry soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate.Singet Sawnie! 8 For the foul thief is just at your gate. Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, Wi’ your “Liberty’s Chain” and your wit;O’er Pegasus’ side ye ne’er laid a stride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.Poet Willie! 9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh-t. Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye? If ye meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, Wi’ people that ken ye nae better,Barr Steenie! 10 Wi’people that ken ye nae better. Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;But the Doctor’s your mark, for the Lord’s holy ark, He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t,Jamie Goose! 11 He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t. Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster, The core is no nice o’ recruits;Yet to worth let’s be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes,Davie Bluster! 12 If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes. Cessnock-side! Cessnock-side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride Of manhood but sma’ is your share:Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true, ev’n your foes will allow, And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,Cessnock-side! 13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the L—d makes a rock, To crush common-sense for her sins;If ill-manners were wit, there’s no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance,Muirland Jock! 14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book, An’ the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;Tho’ ye’re rich, an’ look big, yet, lay by hat an’ wig, An’ ye’ll hae a calf’s-had o’ sma’ value,Andro Gowk! 15 Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value. Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there’a a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk;Tho’ ye do little skaith, ye’ll be in at the death, For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,Daddy Auld! 16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull, When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor;The timmer is scant when ye’re taen for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,Holy Will! 17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour. Calvin’s sons! Calvin’s sons, seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition you never can need;Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead,Calvin’s sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead. Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi” your priest-skelpin turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire?Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e’en tipsy, She could ca’us nae waur than we are,Poet Burns! She could ca’us nae waur than we are. PRESENTATION STANZAS TO CORRESPONDENTSFactor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone, And ne’er made anither, thy peer,Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard, He presents thee this token sincere,Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere. Afton’s Laird! Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spared, A copy of this I bequeath,On the same sicker score as I mention’d before, To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,Afton’s Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith. Note 1. Dr. M’Gill, Ayr.—R. B. [back]Note 2. See the advertisement.—R. B. [back]Note 3. John Ballantine,—R. B. [back]Note 4. Robert Aiken.—R. B. [back]Note 5. Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr.—R. B. [back]Note 6. John Russell, Kilmarnock.—R. B. [back]Note 7. James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock.—R. B. [back]Note 8. Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.—R. B. [back]Note 9. William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster, who, among many other things, published an ode on the “Centenary of the Revolution,” in which was the line: “And bound in Liberty’s endering chain.”—R. B. [back]Note 10. Stephen Young of Barr.—R. B. [back]Note 11. James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant Mitchel—R. B. [back]Note 12. David Grant, Ochiltree.—R. B. [back]Note 13. George Smith, Galston.—R. B. [back]Note 14. John Shepherd Muirkirk.—R. B. [back]Note 15. Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton.—R. B. [back]Note 16. William Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see “Holy Willie”s Prayer.”—R. B. [back]Note 17. Vide the “Prayer” of this saint.—R. B. [back]"
177,"2018-02-27 21:12:08","26. John Barleycorn: A Ballad","Robert Burns","THERE was three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high,And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough’d him down, Put clods upon his head,And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful Spring came kindly on, And show’rs began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris’d them all. The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong;His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears, That no one should him wrong. The sober Autumn enter’d mild, When he grew wan and pale;His bending joints and drooping head Show’d he began to fail. His colour sicken’d more and more, He faded into age;And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee;Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell’d him full sore;They hung him up before the storm, And turned him o’er and o’er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim;They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe;And still, as signs of life appear’d, They toss’d him to and fro. They wasted, o’er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones;But a miller us’d him worst of all, For he crush’d him between two stones. And they hae taen his very heart’s blood, And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise;For if you do but taste his blood, ’Twill make your courage rise. ’Twill make a man forget his woe; ’Twill heighten all his joy;’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing, Tho’ the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterity Ne’er fail in old Scotland!"
178,"2018-02-27 21:12:10","398. Lord Gregory: A Ballad","Robert Burns","O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest’s roar;A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door.An exile frae her father’s ha’, And a’ for loving thee;At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove By bonie Irwine side,Where first I own’d that virgin love I lang, lang had denied.How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for aye be mine!And my fond heart, itsel’ sae true, It ne’er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast:Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by, O, wilt thou bring me rest!Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see;But spare and pardon my fause Love, His wrangs to Heaven and me."
179,"2018-02-27 21:12:10","39. Ballad on the American War","Robert Burns","WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood An’ did our hellim thraw, man,Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man:Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man;An’ did nae less, in full congress, Than quite refuse our law, man. Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man;Down Lowrie’s Burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca’, man:But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa’, man,Wi’ sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en’mies a’, man. Poor Tammy Gage within a cage Was kept at Boston-ha’, man;Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe For Philadelphia, man;Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork, Sir-Loin he hacked sma’, man. Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip, Till Fraser brave did fa’, man;Then lost his way, ae misty day, In Saratoga shaw, man.Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought, An’ did the Buckskins claw, man;But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa’, man. Then Montague, an’ Guilford too, Began to fear, a fa’, man;And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour, The German chief to thraw, man:For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a’, man;An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box, An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man. Then Rockingham took up the game, Till death did on him ca’, man;When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man:Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man;For North an’ Fox united stocks, An’ bore him to the wa’, man. Then clubs an’ hearts were Charlie’s cartes, He swept the stakes awa’, man,Till the diamond’s ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair faux pas, man:The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads, On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man;An’ Scotland drew her pipe an’ blew, “Up, Willie, waur them a’, man!” Behind the throne then Granville’s gone, A secret word or twa, man;While slee Dundas arous’d the class Be-north the Roman wa’, man:An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heav’nly graith, (Inspired bardies saw, man),Wi’ kindling eyes, cry’d, “Willie, rise! Would I hae fear’d them a’, man?” But, word an’ blow, North, Fox, and Co. Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man;Till Suthron raise, an’ coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man:An’ Caledon threw by the drone, An’ did her whittle draw, man;An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ bluid, To mak it guid in law, man."
180,"2018-02-27 21:12:12","548. The Dean of Faculty: A new Ballad","Robert Burns","DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw, That Scot to Scot did carry;And dire the discord Langside saw For beauteous, hapless Mary:But Scot to Scot ne’er met so hot, Or were more in fury seen, Sir,Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job, Who should be the Faculty’s Dean, Sir. This Hal for genius, wit and lore, Among the first was number’d;But pious Bob, ’mid learning’s store, Commandment the tenth remember’d:Yet simple Bob the victory got, And wan his heart’s desire,Which shews that heaven can boil the pot, Tho’ the devil piss in the fire. Squire Hal, besides, had in this case Pretensions rather brassy;For talents, to deserve a place, Are qualifications saucy.So their worships of the Faculty, Quite sick of merit’s rudeness,Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see, To their gratis grace and goodness. As once on Pisgah purg’d was the sight Of a son of Circumcision,So may be, on this Pisgah height, Bob’s purblind mental vision—Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be opened yet, Till for eloquence you hail him,And swear that he has the angel met That met the ass of Balaam. In your heretic sins may you live and die, Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty!But accept, ye sublime Majority, My congratulations hearty.With your honours, as with a certain king, In your servants this is striking,The more incapacity they bring, The more they’re to your liking."
181,"2018-02-27 21:12:16","293. The Whistle: A Ballad","Robert Burns","I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North.Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King,And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,The god of the bottle sends down from his hall—“The Whistle’s your challenge, to Scotland get o’er,And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!” Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,What champions ventur’d, what champions fell:The son of great Loda was conqueror still,And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war,He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d;Which now in his house has for ages remain’d;Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,The jovial contest again have renew’d. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flawCraigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law;And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins;And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil;Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,And once more, in claret, try which was the man. “By the gods of the ancients!” Downrightly replies,“Before I surrender so glorious a prize,I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.” Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe, or his friend;Said, “Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,”And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame,Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray,And tell future ages the feats of the day;A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply,And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy;In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er:Bright Phoebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core,And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn,Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red,And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine;He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend!Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light;So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight. Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:—“Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink!But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime! “Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!”"
182,"2018-02-27 21:12:19","551. Ballad on Mr. Heron’s Election—No. 4","Robert Burns","WHA will buy my troggin, fine election ware,Broken trade o’ Broughton, a’ in high repair? Chorus.—Buy braw troggin frae the banks o’ Dee;Wha wants troggin let him come to me. There’s a noble Earl’s fame and high renown,For an auld sang—it’s thought the gudes were stown— Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s the worth o’ Broughton in a needle’s e’e;Here’s a reputation tint by Balmaghie. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s its stuff and lining, Cardoness’ head,Fine for a soger, a’ the wale o’ lead. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s a little wadset, Buittle’s scrap o’ truth,Pawn’d in a gin-shop, quenching holy drouth. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s an honest conscience might a prince adorn;Frae the downs o’ Tinwald, so was never worn. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s armorial bearings frae the manse o’ Urr;The crest, a sour crab-apple, rotten at the core. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast;By a thievish midge they had been nearly lost. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here is Satan’s picture, like a bizzard gled,Pouncing poor Redcastle, sprawlin’ like a taed. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s the font where Douglas stane and mortar names;Lately used at Caily christening Murray’s crimes. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here is Murray’s fragments o’ the ten commands;Gifted by black Jock to get them aff his hands. Buy braw troggin, &c. Saw ye e’er sic troggin? if to buy ye’re slack,Hornie’s turnin chapman—he’ll buy a’ the pack. Buy braw troggin, &c."
183,"2018-02-27 21:12:21","403. The Soldier’s Return: A Ballad","Robert Burns","WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning,Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning;I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I’d been a lodger,My humble knapsack a’ my wealth, A poor and honest sodger. A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder;And for fair Scotia hame again, I cheery on did wander:I thought upon the banks o’ Coil, I thought upon my Nancy,I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach’d the bonie glen, Where early life I sported;I pass’d the mill and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted:Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, Down by her mother’s dwelling!And turn’d me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling. Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom,O! happy, happy may he be, That’s dearest to thy bosom:My purse is light, I’ve far to gang, And fain would be thy lodger;I’ve serv’d my king and country lang— Take pity on a sodger.” Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me, And lovelier was than ever;Quo’ she, “A sodger ance I lo’ed, Forget him shall I never:Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it;That gallant badge-the dear cockade, Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.” She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose— Syne pale like only lily;She sank within my arms, and cried, “Art thou my ain dear Willie?”“By him who made yon sun and sky! By whom true love’s regarded,I am the man; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded. “The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame, And find thee still true-hearted;Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love, And mair we’se ne’er be parted.”Quo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish’d fairly;And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad, Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!” For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor;But glory is the sodger’s prize, The sodger’s wealth is honor:The brave poor sodger ne’er despise, Nor count him as a stranger;Remember he’s his country’s stay, In day and hour of danger."
184,"2018-02-27 21:12:22","A Fountain, a Bottle, a Donkey's Ears, and Some Books","Robert Frost","Old Davis owned a solid mica mountainIn Dalton that would someday make his fortune.There'd been some Boston people out to see it:And experts said that deep down in the mountainThe mica sheets were big as plate-glass windows.He'd like to take me there and show it to me.""I'll tell you what you show me. You rememberYou said you knew the place where once, on Kinsman,The early Mormons made a settlementAnd built a stone baptismal font outdoors—But Smith, or someone, called them off the mountainTo go West to a worse fight with the desert.You said you'd seen the stone baptismal font.Well, take me there."" Someday I will."" ""Today.""""Huh, that old bathtub, what is that to see?Let's talk about it."" ""Let's go see the place.""'To shut you up I'll tell you what I'll do:I'll find that fountain if it takes all summer,And both of our united strengths, to do it.""""You've lost it, then?"" ""Not so but I can find it.No doubt it's grown up some to woods around it.The mountain may have shifted since I saw itIn eighty-five."" ""As long ago as that?""""If I remember rightly, it had sprungA leak and emptied then. And forty yearsCan do a good deal to bad masonry.You won't see any Mormon swimming in it.But you have said it, and we're off to find it.Old as I am, I'm going to let myselfBe dragged by you all over everywhere——""""I thought you were a guide.” ""I am a guide,And that's why I can't decently refuse you.""We made a day of it out of the world,Ascending to descend to reascend.The old man seriously took his bearings,And spoke his doubts in every open place.We came out on a look-off where we facedA cliff, and on the cliff a bottle painted,Or stained by vegetation from above,A likeness to surprise the thrilly tourist.""Well, if I haven't brought you to the fountain,At least I've brought you to the famous Bottle.""""I won't accept the substitute. It's empty.”""So's everything.""""I want my fountain.""""I guess you'd find the fountain just as empty.And anyway this tells me where I am.”""Hadn't you long suspected where you were?""""You mean miles from that Mormon settlement?Look here, you treat your guide with due respectIf you don't want to spend the night outdoors.I vow we must be near the place from whereThe two converging slides, the avalanches,On Marshall, look like donkey's ears.We may as well see that and save the day.""""Don't donkey's ears suggest we shake our own?""""For God's sake, aren't you fond of viewing nature?You don't like nature. All you like is books.What signify a donkey's cars and bottle,However natural? Give you your books!Well then, right here is where I show you books.Come straight down off this mountain just as fastAs we can fall and keep a-bouncing on our feet.It's hell for knees unless done hell-for-leather.""Be ready, I thought, for almost anything.We struck a road I didn't recognize,But welcomed for the chance to lave my shoesIn dust once more. We followed this a mile,Perhaps, to where it ended at a houseI didn't know was there. It was the kindTo bring me to for broad-board paneling.I never saw so good a house deserted.""Excuse me if I ask you in a windowThat happens to be broken, Davis said.""The outside doors as yet have held against us.I want to introduce you to the peopleWho used to live here. They were Robinsons.You must have heard of Clara Robinson,The poetess who wrote the book of versesAnd had it published. It was all aboutThe posies on her inner windowsill,And the birds on her outer windowsill,And how she tended both, or had them tended:She never tended anything herself.She was 'shut in' for life. She lived her wholeLife long in bed, and wrote her things in bed.I'll show You how she had her sills extendedTo entertain the birds and hold the flowers.Our business first's up attic with her books.""We trod uncomfortably on crunching glassThrough a house stripped of everythingExcept, it seemed, the poetess's poems.Books, I should say!—-if books are what is needed.A whole edition in a packing caseThat, overflowing like a horn of plenty,Or like the poetess's heart of love,Had spilled them near the window, toward the lightWhere driven rain had wet and swollen them.Enough to stock a village library—Unfortunately all of one kind, though.They bad been brought home from some publisherAnd taken thus into the family.Boys and bad hunters had known what to doWith stone and lead to unprotected glass:Shatter it inward on the unswept floors.How had the tender verse escaped their outrage?By being invisible for what it was,Or else by some remoteness that defied themTo find out what to do to hurt a poem.Yet oh! the tempting flatness of a book,To send it sailing out the attic windowTill it caught wind and, opening out its covers,Tried to improve on sailing like a tileBy flying like a bird (silent in flight,But all the burden of its body song),Only to tumble like a stricken bird,And lie in stones and bushes unretrieved.Books were not thrown irreverently about.They simply lay where someone now and then,Having tried one, had dropped it at his feetAnd left it lying where it fell rejected.Here were all those the poetess's lifeHad been too short to sell or give away.""Take one,"" Old Davis bade me graciously.""Why not take two or three?"" ""Take all you want.""Good-looking books like that."" He picked one freshIn virgin wrapper from deep in the box,And stroked it with a horny-handed kindness.He read in one and I read in another,Both either looking for or finding something.The attic wasps went missing by like bullets.I was soon satisfied for the time being.All the way home I kept rememberingThe small book in my pocket. It was there.The poetess had sighed, I knew, in heavenAt having eased her heart of one more copy—Legitimately. My demand upon her,Though slight, was a demand. She felt the tug.In time she would be rid of all her books."
185,"2018-02-27 21:12:24",Baptism,"Claude McKay","Into the furnace let me go alone;Stay you without in terror of the heat.I will go naked in--for thus ''tis sweet--Into the weird depths of the hottest zone.I will not quiver in the frailest bone,You will not note a flicker of defeat;My heart shall tremble not its fate to meet,My mouth give utterance to any moan.The yawning oven spits forth fiery spears;Red aspish tongues shout wordlessly my name.Desire destroys, consumes my mortal fears,Transforming me into a shape of flame.I will come out, back to your world of tears,A stronger soul within a finer frame."
186,"2018-02-27 21:12:25","Giving chapter V","Khalil Gibran","Then said a rich man, ""Speak to us of Giving."" And he answered: You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give. For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow? And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the overprudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city? And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, thirst that is unquenchable? There are those who give little of the much which they have - and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome. And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty. There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism. And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Though the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth. It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding; And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving And is there aught you would withhold? All you have shall some day be given; Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'. You often say, ""I would give, but only to the deserving."" The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights is worthy of all else from you. And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream. And what desert greater shall there be than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving? And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed? See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving. For in truth it is life that gives unto life - while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness. And you receivers - and you are all receivers - assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives. Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings; For to be overmindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the free-hearted earth for mother, and God for father."
187,"2018-02-27 21:12:29","Gertrude of Wyoming","Thomas Campbell","PART IOn Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming!Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall,And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring,Of what thy gentle people did befall;Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of allThat see the Atlantic wave their morn restore.Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall,And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore,Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore!Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,The happy shepherd swains had nought to doBut feed their flocks on green declivities,Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe,From morn till evening's sweeter pastimes grew,With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown,Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew;And aye those sunny mountains half-way downWould echo flageolet from some romantic town.Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takesHis leave, how might you the flamingo seeDisporting like a meteor on the lakes--And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree:And every sound of life was full of glee,From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men;While hearkening, fearing naught their revelry,The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then,Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.And scarce had Wyoming of war or crimeHeard, but in transatlantic story rung,For here the exile met from every clime,And spoke in friendship every distant tongue:Men from the blood of warring Europe sprungWere but divided by the running brook;And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook,The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook.Nor far some Andalusian sarabandWould sound to many a native roundelay--But who is he that yet a dearer landRemembers, over hills and far away?Green Albin! what though he no more surveyThy ships at anchor on the quiet shore,Thy pelloch's rolling from the mountain bay,Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor,And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar!Alas! poor Caledonia's mountaineer,That wants stern edict e'er, and feudal grief,Had forced him from a home he loved so dear!Yet found he here a home and glad relief,And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf,That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee:And England sent her men, of men the chief,Who taught those sires of empire yet to be,To plant the tree of life,--to plant fair Freedom's tree!Here was not mingled in the city's pompOf life's extremes the grandeur and the gloomJudgment awoke not here her dismal tromp,Nor seal'd in blood a fellow-creature's doom,Nor mourn'd the captive in a living tomb.One venerable man, beloved of all,Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom,To sway the strife, that seldom might befall:And Albert was their judge, in patriarchal hall.How reverend was the look, serenely aged,He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire,Where all but kindly fervors were assuaged,Undimm'd by weakness' shade, or turbid ire!And though, amidst the calm of thought entire,Some high and haughty features might betrayA soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fireThat fled composure's intellectual ray,As AEtna's fires grow dim before the rising day.I boast no song in magic wonders rife,But yet, oh Nature! is there naught to prize,Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?And dwells in day-light truth's salubrious skiesNo form with which the soul may sympathise?--Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mildThe parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,Or blest his noonday walk--she was his only child.The rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek--What though these shades had seen her birth, her sireA Briton's independence taught to seekFar western worlds; and there his household fireThe light of social love did long inspire,And many a halcyon day he lived to seeUnbroken but by one misfortune dire,When fate had reft his mutual heart--but sheWas gone--and Gertrude climb'd a widow'd father's knee.A loved bequest,--and I may half impart--To them that feel the strong paternal tie,How like a new existence to his heartThat living flower uprose beneath his eyeDear as she was from cherub infancy,From hours when she would round his garden play,To time when as the ripening years went by,Her lovely mind could culture well repay,And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day.I may not paint those thousand infant charms;(Unconscious fascination, undesign'd!)The orison repeated in his arms,For God to bless her sire and all mankind;The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:)All uncompanion'd else her heart had goneTill now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour,When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent,An Indian from his bark approach their bower,Of buskin limb, and swarthy lineament;The red wild feathers on his brow were blent,And bracelets bound the arm that help'd to lightA boy, who seem'd, as he beside him went,Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright,Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night.Yet pensive seem'd the boy for one so young--The dimple from his polish'd cheek had fled;When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung,Th' Oneyda warrior to the planter said,And laid his hand upon the stripling's head,""Peace be to thee! my words this belt approve;The paths of peace my steps have hither led:This little nursling, take him to thy love,And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent dove.Christian! I am the foeman of thy foe;Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace:Upon the Michigan, three moons ago,We launch'd our pirogues for the bison chase,And with the Hurons planted for a space,With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk;But snakes are in the bosoms of their race,And though they held with us a friendly talk,The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk!It was encamping on the lake's far port,A cry of Areouski broke our sleep,Where storm'd an ambush'd foe thy nation's fortAnd rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep;But long thy country's war-sign on the steepAppear'd through ghastly intervals of light,And deathfully their thunders seem'd to sweep,Till utter darkness swallow'd up the sight,As if a shower of blood had quench'd the fiery fight!It slept--it rose again--on high their towerSprung upwards like a torch to light the skies,Then down again it rain'd an ember shower,And louder lamentations heard we rise;As when the evil Manitou that driesTh' Ohio woods, consumes them in his ire,In vain the desolated panther flies,And howls amidst his wilderness of fire:Alas! too late, we reach'd and smote those Hurons dire!But as the fox beneath the nobler hound,So died their warriors by our battle brand;And from the tree we, with her child, unboundA lonely mother of the Christian land:--Her lord--the captain of the British band--Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay.Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand;Upon her child she sobb'd and soon'd away,Or shriek'd unto the God to whom the Christians pray.Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowlsOf fever-balm and sweet sagamite:But she was journeying to the land of souls,And lifted up her dying head to prayThat we should bid an ancient friend conveyHer orphan to his home of England's shore;And take, she said, this token far away,To one that will remember us of yore,When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia wore.And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rush'dWith this lorn dove.""--A sage's self-commandHad quell'd the tears from Albert's heart that gush'd;But yet his cheek--his agitated hand--That shower'd upon the stranger of the landNo common boon, in grief but ill beguiledA soul that was not wont to be unmann'd;""And stay,"" he cried, ""dear pilgrim of the wild,Preserver of my old, my boon companion's child!--Child of a race whose name my bosom warms,On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here!Whose mother oft, a child, has fill'd these arms,Young as thyself, and innocently dear,Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer.Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime!How beautiful even' now thy scenes appear,As in the noon and sunshine of my prime!How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time!And Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude nowCan I forget thee, favorite child of yore?Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thouWert lightest-hearted on his festive floor,And first of all his hospitable doorTo meet and kiss me at my journey's end?But where was I when Waldegrave was no more?And thou didst pale thy gentle head extendIn woes, that ev'n the tribe of deserts was thy friend!""He said--and strain'd unto his heart the boy;--Far differently, the mute Oneyda tookHis calumet of peace, and cup of joy;As monumental bronze unchanged his look;A soul that pity touch'd but never shook;Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bierThe fierce extreme of good and ill to brookImpassive--fearing but the shame of fear--A stoic of the woods--a man without a tear.Yet deem not goodness on the savage stockOf Outalissi's heart disdain'd to grow;As lives the oak unwither'd on the rockBy storms above, and barrenness below;He scorn'd his own, who felt another's wo:And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung,Or laced his mocassins, in act to go,A song of parting to the boy he sung,Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friendly tongue.""Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming landShouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet,Oh! tell her spirit, that the white man's handHath pluck'd the thorns of sorrow from thy feet;While I in lonely wilderness shall greetThey little foot-prints--or by traces knowThe fountain, where at noon I thought it sweetTo feed thee with the quarry of my bow,And pour'd the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe.Adieu! sweet scion of the rising sun!But should affliction's storms thy blossom mock,Then come again--my own adopted one!And I will graft thee on a noble stock:The crocodile, the condor of the rock,Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars;And I will teach thee in the battle' shockTo pay with Huron blood thy father's scars,And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars!""So finish'd he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth)That true to nature's fervid feelings ran;(And song is but the eloquence of truth:)Then forth uprose that lone wayfaring man;But dauntless he, nor chart, nor journey's planIn woods required, whose trained eye was keen,As eagle of the wilderness, to scanHis path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine,Or ken far friendly huts on good savannas green.Old Albert saw him from the valley's side--His pirogue launch'd--his pilgrimage begun--Far, like the red-bird's wing he seem'd to glide;Then dived, and vanish'd in the woodlands dun.Oft, to that spot by tender memory won,Would Albert climb the promontory's height,If but a dim sail glimmer'd in the sun;But never more to bless his longing sight,Was Outalissi hail'd, with bark and plumage bright.PART II.A valley from the river shower withdrawnWas Albert's home, two quiet woods between,Whose lofty verdure overlook'd his lawnAnd waters to their resting-place sereneCame freshening, and reflecting all the scene:(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;)So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween,)Have guess'd some congregation of the elves,To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse,Nor vistas open'd by the wandering stream;Both where at evening Alleghany viewsThrough ridges burning in her western beamLake after lake interminably gleam:And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roamWhere earth's unliving silence all would seem;Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,Or buffalo remote low'd far from human home.But silent not that adverse eastern path,Which saw Aurora's hills th' horizon crown;There was the river heard, in bed of wrath,(A precipice of foam from mountains brown,)Like tumults heard from some far distant town;But softening in approach he left his gloom,And murmur'd pleasantly, and laid him downTo kiss those easy curving banks of bloom,That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume.It seem'd as if those scenes sweet influence hadOn Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their ownInspired those eyes affectionate and glad,That seem'd to love whate'er they look'd upon;Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone,Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast,(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)Yet so becomingly th' expression past,That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,With all its picturesque and balmy grace,And fields that were a luxury to roam,Lost on the soul that look'd from such a face!Enthusiast of the woods! when years apaceHad bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone,The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee traceTo hills with high magnolia overgrown,And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,That thus apostrophised its viewless scene:""Land of my father's love, my mother's birth!The home of kindred I have never seen!We know not other--oceans are between:Yet say, far friendly hearts! from whence we came,Of us does oft remembrance intervene?My mother sure--my sire a thought may claim;--But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.And yet, loved England! when thy name I traceIn many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song,How can I choose but wish for one embraceOf them, the dear unknown, to whom belongMy mother's looks; perhaps her likeness strong?Oh, parent! with what reverential awe,From features of thine own related throng,An image of thy face my soul could draw!And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!""Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy;To soothe a father's couch her only care,And keep his reverend head from all annoy:For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,While boatmen carol'd to the fresh-blown air,And woods a horizontal shadow threw,And early fox appear'd in momentary view.Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore,Tradition had not named its lonely spot;But here (methinks) might India's sons exploreTheir fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore,Their voice to the great Spirit:--rocks sublimeTo human art a sportive semblance bore,And yellow lichens color'd all the clime,Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by time.But high in amphitheatre above,Gay tinted woods their massy foliage threw:Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the groveAs if instinct with living spirit grew,Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;And now suspended was the pleasing din,Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew,Like the first note of organ heard withinCathedral aisles,--ere yet its symphony begin.It was in this lonely valley she would charmThe lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strown;Her cheek reclining, and her snowy armOn hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown:And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,Which every heart of human mould endears;With Shakspear's self she speaks and smiles alone,And no intruding visitation fears,To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.And naught within the grove was heard or seenBut stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound,Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird,Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;When, lo! there enter'd to its inmost groundA youth, the stranger of a distant land;He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound;But late th' equator suns his cheek had tann'd,And California's gales his roving bosom fann'd.A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm,He led dismounted; here his leisure pace,Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,Close he had come, and worshipp'd for a spaceThose downcast features:--she her lovely faceUplift on one, whose lineaments and frameWore youth and manhood's intermingled grace:Iberian seem'd his booth--his robe the same,And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.For Albert's home he sought--her finger fairHas pointed where the father's mansion stood.Returning from the copse he soon was there;And soon has Gertrude hied from dark greenwood:Nor joyless, by the converse, understoodBetween the man of age and pilgrim young,That gay congeneality of mood,And early liking from acquaintance sprung;Full fluently conversed their guest in England's tongue.And well could he his pilgrimage of tasteUnfold,--and much they loved his fervid strain,While he each fair variety retracedOf climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main.Now happy Switzer's hills,--romantic Spain,--Gay lilied fields of France,--or, more refined,The soft Ausonia's monumental reign;Nor less each rural image he design'dThan all the city's pomp and home of humankind.Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;Of Nature's savage glories he would spea,--The loneliness of earth at overawes,--Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique,The lama-driver on Peruvia's peakNor living voice nor motion marks around;But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound,That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.Pleased with his guest, the good man still would plyEach earnest question, and his converse court;But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not whyA strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.""In England thou hast been,--and, by report,An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have known.Sad tale!--when latest fell our frontier fort,--One innocent--one soldier's child--aloneWas spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own.Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful yearsThese very walls his infants sports did see,But most I loved him when his parting tearsAlternately bedew'd my child and me:His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;Nor half its grief his little heart could hold;By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea,They tore him from us when but twelve years old,And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!""His face the wanderer hid--but could not hideA tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;""And speak! mysterious strange!"" (Gertrude cried)""It is!--it is!--I knew--I knew him well;'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell!""A burst of joy the father's lips declare!But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell;At once his open arms embraced the pair,Was never group more blest in this wide world of care.""And will ye pardon then (replied the youth)Your Waldegrave's feign'd name, and false attire?I durst not in the neighborhood, in truth,The very fortunes of your house inquire;Lest one that knew me might some tidings direImpart, and I my weakness all betray,For had I lost my Gertrude and my sireI meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day,Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.But here ye life, ye bloom,--in each dear face,The changing hand of time I may not blame;For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,And here, of beauty perfected the frame:And well I know your hearts are still the same--They could not change--ye look the very way,As when an orphan first to you I came.And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day!""""And art thou here? or is it but a dream?And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more!""""No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seemThan aught on earth--than even thyself of yore--I will not part thee from thy father's shore;But we shall cherish him with mutual arms,And hand in hand again the path exploreWhich every ray of young remembrance warms,While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms!""At morn, as if beneath a galaxyOf over-arching groves in blossoms white,Where all was odorous scent and harmony,And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:There, if, O gentle Love! I read arightThe utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond,'Twas listening to these accents of delight,She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyondExpression's power to paint, all languishingly fond--""Flower of my life, so lovely, and so lone!Whom I would rather in this desert meet,Scorning, and scorn'd by fortune's power, than ownHer pomp and splendors lavish'd at my feet!Turn not from me thy breath, move exquisiteThan odors cast on heaven's own shrine--to please--Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet,And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze,When Coromandel's ships return from Indian seas.""Then would that home admit them--happier farThan grandeur's most magnificent saloon,While, here and there, a solitary starFlush'd in the darkening firmament of June;And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soonIneffable, which I may not portray;For never did the hymenean moonA paradise of hearts more sacred sway,In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.PART III.O Love! in such a wilderness as this,Where transport and security entwine,Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss,And here thou art a god indeed divine.Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confineThe views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire!Nor, blind with ecstacy's celestial fire,Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.Three little moons, how short! amidst the groveAnd pastoral savannas they consume!While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove,Delights, in fancifully wild costume,Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;But not to chase the deer in forest gloom,'Tis but the breath of heaven--the blessed air--And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.What though the sportive dog oft round them note,Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;Yet who, in Love's own presence, would devoteTo death those gentle throats that wake the spring,Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?No!--nor let fear one little warbler rouse;But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing,Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,That shade ev'n now her love, and witness'd first her vows.Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce,Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground,Where welcome hills shut out the universe,And pines their lawny walk encompass round;There, if a pause delicious converse found,'Twas but when o'er each heart th' idea stole,(Perchance a while in joy's oblivion drown'd)That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll,Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul.And in the visions of romantic youth,What years of endless bliss are yet to flow!But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below!And must I change my song? and must I show,Sweet Wyoming! the day when thou art doom'd,Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low!When were of yesterday a garden bloom'd,Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes gloom'd!Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven,When Transatlantic Liberty arose,Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven,But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes,Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes;Her birth star was the light of burning plains;Her baptism is the weight of blood that flowsFrom kindred hearts--the blood of British veins--And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains.Yet, here the storm of death had raged remote,Or seige unseen in heaven reflects its beams,Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note,That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly dreams!Dismal to her the forge of battle gleamsPortentous light! and music's voice is dumb;Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams,Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum,That speaks of maddening strife, and blood-stained fields to come.It was in truth a momentary pang;Yet how comprising myriad shapes of wo!First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang,A husband to the battle doom'd to go!""Nay meet not thou( she cried) thy kindred foe!But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand!""""Ah, Gertrude, thy beloved heart, I know,Would feel like mine the stigmatising brand!Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band!But shame--but flight--a recreant's name to prove,To hide in exile ignominous fears;Say, ev'n if this I brook'd, the public loveThy father's bosom to his home endears:And how could I his few remaining years,My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child?""So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers:At last that heart to hope is half beguiled,And, pale, through tears suppress'd, the mournful beauty smiled.Night came,--and in their lighted bower, full late,The joy of converse had endured--when, hark!Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate;And heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark,A form had rush'ed amidst them from the dark,And spread his arms,--and fell upon the floor:Of aged strength his limbs retained the mark;But desolate he look's and famish'd, poor,As ever shipwreck'd wretch lone left on desert shore.Uprisen, each wond'ring brow is knit and arch'd:A spirit form the dead they deem him first:To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parch'd,From lips, as by some powerless dream accursedEmotions unintelligible burst;And long his filmed eye is red and dim;At length the pity-proffer'd cup his thirstHad half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limbWhen Albert's hand he grasp'd;--but Albert knew not him--""And hast thou then forgot,"" (he cried forlorn,And eyed the group with half indignant air,)""Oh! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the mornWhen I with thee the cup of peace did share?Then stately was this head, and dark this hair,That now is white as Appalachia's snow;But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair,And age hath bow'd me, and the torturing foe,Bring me my boy--and he will his deliverer know!""--It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame,Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew:""Bless thee, my guide!""--but backward as he came,The chief his old bewilder'd head withdrew,And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him through.'Twas strange--nor could the group a smile control--The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view:At last delight o'er all his features stole,""It is--my own,"" he cried, and clasp'd him to his soul.""Yes! thou recallest my pride of years, for thenThe bowstring of my spirit was not slack,When, spite of woods and floods, and ambush'd men,I bore thee like the quiver on my back,Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack;Nor foreman then, nor cougar's crouch I fear'd,For I was strong as mountain cataract:And dost thou not remember how we cheer'd,Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts appear'd?Then welcome be my death-song, and my deathSince I have seen thee, and again embrac'd.""And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath;But with affectionate and eager haste,Was every arm outstretch'd around their guest,To welcome and to bless his aged head.Soon was the hospitable banquet placed;And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shedOn wounds with fever'd joy that more profusely bled.""But this is not a time,""--he started up,And smote his breast with wo-denouncing hand--""This is no time to fill the joyous cup,The Mammoth comes,--the foe,--the Monster Brandt,--With all his howling desolating band;These eyes have seen their blade and burning pineAwake at once, and silence half your land.Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine:Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine!Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe,'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth:Accursed Brandt! he left of all my tribeNor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth:No! not the dog that watch'd my household hearth,Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains!All perish'd!--I alone am left on earth!To whom nor relative nor blood remains.No! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins!But go!--and rouse your warriors, for, if rightThese old bewilder'd eyes could guess, by signsOf striped, and starred banners, on yon heightOf eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines--Some fort embattled by your country shines:Deep roars th' innavigable gulf belowIts squared rock, and palisaded lines.Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show;Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe!""Scarce had he utter'd--when Heaven's virge extremeReverberates the bomb's descending star,And sounds that mingled laugh,--and shout,--and scream,--To freeze the blood in once discordant jarRung to the pealing thunderbolts of war.Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail'd;As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar;While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd:--And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wail'd.Then look'd they to the hills, where fire o'erhungThe bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare;Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrungTold legible that midnight of despair.She faints,--she falters not,--th' heroic fair,As he the sword and plume in haste array'd.One short embrace--he clasp'd his dearest care--But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade?Joy, joy! Columbia's friends are trampling through the shade!Then came of every race the mingled swarm,Far rung the groves and gleam'd the midnight grass,With Flambeau, javelin, and naked arm;As warriors wheel'd their culverins of brass,Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass,Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines:And first the wild Moravian yagers pass,His plumed host the dark Iberian joins--And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle shines.And in, the buskin'd hunters of the deer,To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng--Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,Old Outalissi woke his battle song,And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts,Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.Calm, opposite the Christian father rose,Pale on his venerable brow its raysOf martyr light the conflagration throws;One hand upon his lovely child he lays,And one th' uncover'd crowd to silence sways;While, though the battle flash is faster driven,--Unaw'd, with eye unstartled by the blaze,He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven,--Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven.Short time is now for gratulating speech:And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere beganThy country's flight, yon distant towers to reach,Looks not on thee the rudest partisanWith brow relax'd to love? And murmurs ran,As round and round their willing ranks they drew,From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van.Grateful on them a placid look she threw,Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu!Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tower,That like a giant standard-bearer frown'dDefiance on the roving Indian power,Beneath, each bold and promontory moundWith embrasure emboss'd, and armor crown'd.And arrowy frise, and wedg'd ravelin,Wove like a diadem its tracery roundThe loft summit of that mountain green;Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene--A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;And for the business of destruction done,Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow:There, sad spectatress of her country's wo!The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snowOn Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his armEnclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm!But short that contemplation--sad and shortThe pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu!Beneath the very shadow of the fort,Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew;Ah! who could deem that root of Indian crewWas near?--yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds,Gleam'd like a basilisk, form woods in view,The ambush'd foeman's eye, his volley speeds,And Albert--Albert falls! the dear old father bleeds!And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd;Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound,These drops?--Oh, God! the life-blood is her own!And faltering on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown;""Weep not, O Love!""--she cries, ""to see me bleed;Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee aloneHeaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heedThese wounds;--yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed!Clasp me a little longer on the brinkOf fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;And when this heart hath ceased to beat--oh! think,And let it mitigate thy wo's excess,That thou hast been to me all tenderness,And friend no more than human friendship just.Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,And by the hopes of an immortal trust,God shall assuage thy pangs--when I am laid in dust!Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,Where my dear father took thee to his heart,And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to roveWith thee, as with an angel, through the groveOf peace, imagining her lot was castIn heaven; for ours was not like earthly love.And must this parting be our very last!No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.--Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,--And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,If I had lived to smile but on the birthOf one dear pledge;--but shall there then be noneIn future times--no gentle little one,To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run,A sweetness in the cup of death to be,Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!""Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips! but still their blandAnd beautiful expression seem'd to meltWith love that could not die! and still his handShe presses to the heart no more that felt.Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,--Of them that stood encircling his despair,He heard some friendly words;--but knew not what they were.For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrivesA faithful band. With solemn rites between'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,And in their deaths had not divided been.Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene,Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd:--Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seenTo veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved shroud,While woman's softer soul in wo, dissolved aloud.Then mournfully the parting bugle bidIts farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth;Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hidHis face on earth; him watch'd, in gloomy ruth,His woodland guide; but words had none to sootheThe grief that knew not consolation's name;Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that cameConvulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame!""And I could weep;""--th' Oneyda chiefHis descant wildly thus begun:""But that I may not stain with griefThe death-song of my father's son,Or bow this head in wo!For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!To-morrow Areouski's breath,(That fires yon heaven with storms of death,)Shall light us to the foe:And we shall share, my Christian boy!The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!But thee, my flower whose breath was givenBy milder genii o'er the deep,The spirits of the white man's heavenForbid not thee to weep:--Nor will the Christian host,Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,To see thee, on the battle's eve,Lamenting take a mournful leaveOf her who loved thee most:She was the rainbow to thy sight!Thy sun--thy heaven--of lost delight!To-morrow let us do or die!But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,Ah! whither then with thee to fly,Shall Outalissi roam the world?Seek we thy once-loved home?The hand is gone that cropt its flowers;Unheard their clock repeats its hours!Cold is the hearth within their bowers!And should we thither roam,Its echoes, and its empty tread,Would sound like voices from the dead!Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'dAnd by my side, in battle true,A thousand warriors drew the shaft?Ah! there, in desolation cold,The desert serpent dwells alone,Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering boneAnd stones themselves to ruin grownLike me are death-like old.Then seek we not their camp,--for there--The silence dwells of my despair!But hark, the trump!--to-morrow thouIn glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:Ev'n from the land of shadows nowMy father's awful ghost appears,Amidst the clouds that round us roll;He bids my soul for battle thirst--He bids me dry the last--the first--The only tears that ever burstFrom Outalissi's soul;Because I may not stain with griefThe death-song of an Indian chief!"""
188,"2018-02-27 21:12:33","Sonnet 07 - The face of all the world is changed, I think","Elizabeth Barrett Browning","The face of all the world is changed, I think,Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soulMove still, oh, still, beside me, as they stoleBetwixt me and the dreadful outer brinkOf obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,Was caught up into love, and taught the wholeOf life in a new rhythm. The cup of doleGod gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.The names of country, heaven, are changed awayFor where thou art or shalt be, there or here;And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday,(The singing angels know) are only dearBecause thy name moves right in what they say."
189,"2018-02-27 21:12:36","The Barefoot Boy","John Greenleaf Whittier","Blessings on thee, little man,Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!With thy turned-up pantaloons,And thy merry whistled tunes;With thy red lip, redder stillKissed by strawberries on the hill;With the sunshine on thy face,Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;From my heart I give thee joy, -I was once a barefoot boy!Prince thou art, - the grown-up manOnly is republican.Let the million-dollared ride!Barefoot, trudging at his side,Thou hast more than he can buyIn the reach of ear and eye, -Outward sunshine, inward joy:Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!Oh for boyhood's painless play,Sleep that wakes in laughing day,Health that mocks the doctor's rules,Knowledge never learned of schools,Of the wild bee's morning chase,Of the wild-flower's time and place,Flight of fowl and habitudeOf the tenants of the wood;How the tortoise bears his shell,How the woodchuck digs his cell,And the ground-mole sinks his well;How the robin feeds her young,How the oriole's nest is hung;Where the whitest lilies blow,Where the freshest berries grow,Where the ground-nut trails its vine,Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;Of the black wasp's cunning way,Mason of his walls of clay,And the architectural plansOf gray hornet artisans!For, eschewing books and tasks,Nature answers all he asks;Hand in hand with her he walks,Face to face with her he talks,Part and parcel of her joy, -Blessings on the barefoot boy!Oh for boyhood's time of June,Crowding years in one brief moon,When all things I heard or saw,Me, their master, waited for.I was rich in flowers and trees,Humming-birds and honey-bees;For my sport the squirrel played,Plied the snouted mole his spade;For my taste the blackberry conePurpled over hedge and stone;Laughed the brook for my delightThrough the day and through the night,Whispering at the garden wall,Talked with me from fall to fall;Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,Mine the walnut slopes beyond,Mine, on bending orchard trees,Apples of Hesperides!Still as my horizon grew,Larger grew my riches too;All the world I saw or knewSeemed a complex Chinese toy,Fashioned for a barefoot boy!Oh for festal dainties spread,Like my bowl of milk and bread;Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,On the door-stone, gray and rude!O'er me, like a regal tent,Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,Looped in many a wind-swung fold;While for music came the playOf the pied frogs' orchestra;And, to light the noisy choir,Lit the fly his lamp of fire.I was monarch: pomp and joyWaited on the barefoot boy!Cheerily, then, my little man,Live and laugh, as boyhood can!Though the flinty slopes be hard,Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,Every morn shall lead thee throughFresh baptisms of the dew;Every evening from thy feetShall the cool wind kiss the heat:All too soon these feet must hideIn the prison cells of pride,Lose the freedom of the sod,Like a colt's for work be shod,Made to tread the mills of toil,Up and down in ceaseless moil:Happy if their track be foundNever on forbidden ground;Happy if they sink not inQuick and treacherous sands of sin.Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,Ere it passes, barefoot boy!"
190,"2018-02-27 21:12:39","From 'The Testament of Beauty'","Robert Seymour Bridges","'Twas at that hour of beauty when the setting sunsquandereth his cloudy bed with rosy hues, to floodhis lov'd works as in turn he biddeth them Good-night;and all the towers and temples and mansions of menface him in bright farewell, ere they creep from their pompnaked beneath the darkness;- while to mortal eyes'tis given, ifso they close not of fatigue, nor strainat lamplit tasks-'tis given, as for a royal boonto beggarly outcasts in homeless vigil, to watchwhere uncurtain's behind the great windows of spaceHeav'n's jewel'd company circleth unapproachably-'Twas at sunset that I, fleeing to hide my soulin refuge of beauty from a mortal distress,walk'd alone with the Muse in her garden of thought,discoursing at liberty with the mazy dreamsthat came wavering pertinaciously about me; as whenthe small bats, issued from their hangings, flitter o'erheadthru' the summer twilight, with thin cries to and frohunting in muffled flight atween the stars and flowers.Then fell I in strange delusion, illusion strange to tell;for as a man who lyeth fast asleep in his bedmay dream he waketh, and that he walketh uprightpursuing some endeavour in full conscience-so 'twaswith me; but contrawise; for being in truth awakemethought I slept and dreamt; and in thatt dream methoughtI was telling a dream; nor telling was I as onewho, truly awaked from a true sleep, thinketh to tellhis dream to a friend, but for his scant remembrancesfindeth no token of speech-it was not so with me;for my tale was my dream and my dream the telling,and I remember wondring the while I told ithow I told it so tellingly. And yet now 'twould seemthat Reason inveighed me with her old orderings;as once when she took thought to adjust theology,peopling the inane that vex'd her between God and manwith a hierarchy of angels; like those asteroidswherewith she later fill'd the gap 'twixt Jove and Mars.Verily by Beauty it is that we come as WISDOM,yet not by Reason at Beauty; and now with many wordspleasing myself betimes I am fearing lest in the endI play the tedious orator who maundereth onfor lack of heart to make an end of his nothings.Wherefor as when a runner who hath run his roundhandeth his staff away, and is glad of his rest,here break I off, knowing the goal was not for methe while I ran on telling of what cannot be told.For not the Muse herself can tell of Goddes love;which cometh to the child from the Mother's embrace,an Idea spacious as the starry firmament'sinescapable infinity of radiant gaze,that fadeth only as it outpasseth mortal sight:and this direct contact is 't with eternities,this springtide miracle of the soul's nativitythat oft hath set philosophers adrift in dream;which thing Christ taught, when he set up a little childto teach his first Apostles and to accuse their pride,saying, 'Unless ye shall receive it as a child,ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven.'So thru'out all his young mental apprenticehoodthe child of very simplicity, and in the graceand beauteous attitude of infantine wonder,is apt to absorb Ideas in primal purity,and by the assimilation of thatt immortal foodmay build immortal life; but ever with the growthof understanding, as the sensible imagesare more and more corrupt, troubled by questioning thought,or with vainglory alloy'd, 'tis like enought the boyin prospect of his manhood wil hav cast to th' windshis Baptism with his Babyhood; nor might he escapethe fall of Ev'ryman, did not a second callof nature's Love await him to confirm his Faithor to revoke him if he is whollylapsed therefrom.And so mighty is this second vision, which comethin puberty of body and adolescence of mindthat, forgetting his Mother, he calleth it 'first Love';for it mocketh at suasion or stubbornness of heart,as the oceantide of the omnipotent Pleasur of God,flushing all avenues of life, and unawaresby thousandfold approach forestalling its full floodwith divination of the secret contacts of Love,--of faintest ecstasies aslumber in Nature's calm,like thought in a closed book, where some poet long sincesang his throbbing passion to immortal sleep-with coytenderness delicat as the shifting huesthat sanctify the silent dawn with wonder-gleams,whose evanescence is the seal of their glory,consumed in self-becoming of eternity;til every moment as it flyeth, cryeth 'Seize!Seize me ere I die! I am the Life of Life.''Tis thus by near approach to an eternal presenceman's heart with divine furor kindled and possess'dfalleth in blind surrender; and finding therewithalin fullest devotion the full reconcilementbetwixt his animal and spiritual desires,such welcome hour of bliss standeth for certain pledgeof happiness perdurable: and coud he sustainthis great enthusiasm, then the unbounded promisewould keep fulfilment; since the marriage of true mindsis thatt once fabled garden, amidst of which was setthe single Tree that bore such med'cinable fruitthat if man ate thereof he should liv for ever.Friendship is in loving rather than in being lov'd,which is its mutual benediction and recompense;and tho' this be, and tho' love is from lovers learn'd,it springeth none the less from the old essence of self.No friendless man ('twas well said) can be truly himself;what a man looketh for in his friend and findeth,and loving self best, loveth better than himself,is his own better self, his live lovable idea,flowering by expansion in the loves of his life.And in the nobility of our earthly friendshipswe hav al grades of attainment, and the best may claimperfection of kind; and so, since ther be many bondsother than breed (friendships of lesser motiv, foundeven in the brutes) and since our politick is basedon actual association of living men, 'twil comethat the spiritual idea of Friendship, the hugevastidity of its essence, is fritter'd awayin observation of the usual habits of men;as happ'd with the great moralist, where his book saiththat ther can be no friendship betwixt God and manbecause of their unlimited disparity.From this dilemma of pagan thought, this poison of faith,Man-soul made glad escape in the worship of Christ;for his humanity is God's Personality,and communion with him is the life of the soul.Of which living ideas (when in the struggle of thoughtharden'd by language they became symbols of faith)Reason builded her maze, wherefrom none should escape,wandering intent to map and learn her tortuous clews,chanting their clerkly creed to the high-echoing stonesof their hand-fashion'd temple: but the Wind of heav'nbloweth where it listeth, and Christ yet walketh the earth,and talketh still as with those two disciples once on the road to Emmaus-where they walk and are sad;whose vision of him then was his victory over death,thatt resurrection which all his lovers should share,who in loving him had learn'd the Ethick of happiness;whereby they too should come where he was ascendedto reign over men's hearts in the Kingdom of God.Our happiest earthly comradeships hold a foretasteof the feast of salvation and by thatt virtue in themprovoke desire beyond them to out-reach and surmounttheir humanity in some superhumanityand ultimat perfection: which, howe'ever 'tis foundor strangeley imagin'd, answereth to the need of eachand pulleth him instinctivly as to a final cause.Thus unto all who hav found their high ideal in Christ,Christ is to them the essence discern'd or undeiscern'dof all their human friendships; and each lover of himand of his beauty must be as a bud on the Vineand hav participation in him; for Goddes loveis unescapable as nature's environment,which if a man ignore or think to thrust it offhe is the ill-natured fool that runneth blindly on death.This Individualism is man's true Socialism.This is the rife Idea whose spiritual beautymultiplieth in communion to transcendant might.This is thatt excelent way whereon if we wil walkall things shall be added unto us-thatt Love which inspiredthe wayward Visionary in his doctrinal odeto the three christian Graces, the Church's first hymnand only deathless athanasian creed,--the which'except a man believe he cannot be saved.'This is the endearing bond whereby Christ's companyyet holdeth together on the truth of his promisethat he spake of his grat pity and trust in man's love,'Lo, I am with you always ev'n to the end of the world.'Truly the Soul returneth the body's lovingwhere it hath won it...and God so loveth the world...and in the fellowship of the friendship of ChristGod is seen as the very self-essence of love,Creator and mover of all as activ Lover of all,self-express'd in not-self, mind and body, mother and child,'twixt lover and loved, God and man: but ONE ETERNALin the love of Beauty and in the selfhood of Love."
191,"2018-02-27 21:12:41","Hymn 121","Isaac Watts","Children devoted to God. [For those who practise infant Baptism.]Gen. 17:7,10; Acts 16:14,15,33. Thus saith the mercy of the Lord,""I'll be a God to thee;I'll bless thy num'rous race, and theyShall be a seed for me.""Abram believed the promised grace,And gave his sons to God;But water seals the blessing now,That once was sealed with blood.Thus Lydia sanctified her house,When she received the word;Thus the believing jailer gaveHis household to the Lord.Thus later saints, eternal King!Thine ancient truth embrace;To thee their infant offspring bring,And humbly claim the grace."
192,"2018-02-27 21:12:45","Hymn 122","Isaac Watts","Believers buried with Christ in baptism.Rom. 6:3,4,etc. Do we not know that solemn word,That we are buried with the Lord,Baptized into his death, and thenPut off the body of our sin?Our souls receive diviner breath,Raised from corruption, guilt, and death;So from the grave did Christ arise,And lives to God above the skies.No more let sin or Satan reignOver our mortal flesh again;The various lusts we served beforeShall have dominion now no more."
193,"2018-02-27 21:12:46","Plutonian Ode","Allen Ginsberg","IWhat new element before us unborn in nature? Is there a new thing under the Sun?At last inquisitive Whitman a modern epic, detonative, Scientific themeFirst penned unmindful by Doctor Seaborg with poison- ous hand, named for Death's planet through the sea beyond Uranuswhose chthonic ore fathers this magma-teared Lord of Hades, Sire of avenging Furies, billionaire Hell- King worshipped oncewith black sheep throats cut, priests's face averted from underground mysteries in single temple at Eleusis,Spring-green Persephone nuptialed to his inevitable Shade, Demeter mother of asphodel weeping dew,her daughter stored in salty caverns under white snow, black hail, grey winter rain or Polar ice, immemor- able seasons beforeFish flew in Heaven, before a Ram died by the starry bush, before the Bull stamped sky and earthor Twins inscribed their memories in clay or Crab'd floodwashed memory from the skull, or Lion sniffed the lilac breeze in Eden--Before the Great Year began turning its twelve signs, ere constellations wheeled for twenty-four thousand sunny yearsslowly round their axis in Sagittarius, one hundred sixty-seven thousand times returning to this nightRadioactive Nemesis were you there at the beginning black dumb tongueless unsmelling blast of Disil- lusion?I manifest your Baptismal Word after four billion yearsI guess your birthday in Earthling Night, I salute your dreadful presence last majestic as the Gods,Sabaot, Jehova, Astapheus, Adonaeus, Elohim, Iao, Ialdabaoth, Aeon from Aeon born ignorant in an Abyss of Light,Sophia's reflections glittering thoughtful galaxies, whirl- pools of starspume silver-thin as hairs of Einstein!Father Whitman I celebrate a matter that renders Self oblivion!Grand Subject that annihilates inky hands & pages' prayers, old orators' inspired Immortalities,I begin your chant, openmouthed exhaling into spacious sky over silent mills at Hanford, Savannah River, Rocky Flats, Pantex, Burlington, AlbuquerqueI yell thru Washington, South Carolina, Colorado, Texas, Iowa, New Mexico,Where nuclear reactors creat a new Thing under the Sun, where Rockwell war-plants fabricate this death stuff trigger in nitrogen baths,Hanger-Silas Mason assembles the terrified weapon secret by ten thousands, & where Manzano Moun- tain boasts to storeits dreadful decay through two hundred forty millenia while our Galaxy spirals around its nebulous core.I enter your secret places with my mind, I speak with your presence, I roar your Lion Roar with mortal mouth.One microgram inspired to one lung, ten pounds of heavy metal dust adrift slow motion over grey Alpsthe breadth of the planet, how long before your radiance speeds blight and death to sentient beings?Enter my body or not I carol my spirit inside you, Unnaproachable Weight,O heavy heavy Element awakened I vocalize your con- sciousness to six worldsI chant your absolute Vanity. Yeah monster of Anger birthed in fear O mostIgnorant matter ever created unnatural to Earth! Delusion of metal empires!Destroyer of lying Scientists! Devourer of covetous Generals, Incinerator of Armies & Melter of Wars!Judgement of judgements, Divine Wind over vengeful nations, Molester of Presidents, Death-Scandal of Capital politics! Ah civilizations stupidly indus- trious!Canker-Hex on multitudes learned or illiterate! Manu- factured Spectre of human reason! O solidified imago of practicioner in Black ArtsI dare your reality, I challenge your very being! I publish your cause and effect!I turn the wheel of Mind on your three hundred tons! Your name enters mankind's ear! I embody your ultimate powers!My oratory advances on your vaunted Mystery! This breath dispels your braggart fears! I sing your form at lastbehind your concrete & iron walls inside your fortress of rubber & translucent silicon shields in filtered cabinets and baths of lathe oil,My voice resounds through robot glove boxes & ignot cans and echoes in electric vaults inert of atmo- sphere,I enter with spirit out loud into your fuel rod drums underground on soundless thrones and beds of leadO density! This weightless anthem trumpets transcendent through hidden chambers and breaks through iron doors into the Infernal Room!Over your dreadful vibration this measured harmony floats audible, these jubilant tones are honey and milk and wine-sweet waterPoured on the stone black floor, these syllables are barley groats I scatter on the Reactor's core, I call your name with hollow vowels, I psalm your Fate close by, my breath near deathless ever at your sideto Spell your destiny, I set this verse prophetic on your mausoleum walls to seal you up Eternally with Diamond Truth! O doomed Plutonium. IIThe Bar surveys Plutonian history from midnight lit with Mercury Vapor streetlamps till in dawn's early lighthe contemplates a tranquil politic spaced out between Nations' thought-forms proliferating bureaucratic& horrific arm'd, Satanic industries projected sudden with Five Hundred Billion Dollar Strengtharound the world same time this text is set in Boulder, Colorado before front range of Rocky Mountainstwelve miles north of Rocky Flats Nuclear Facility in United States of North America, Western Hemi- sphereof planet Earth six months and fourteen days around our Solar System in a Spiral Galaxythe local year after Dominion of the last God nineteen hundred seventy eightCompleted as yellow hazed dawn clouds brighten East, Denver city white belowBlue sky transparent rising empty deep & spacious to a morning star high over the balcony above some autos sat with wheels to curb downhill from Flatiron's jagged pine ridge,sunlit mountain meadows sloped to rust-red sandstone cliffs above brick townhouse roofsas sparrows waked whistling through Marine Street's summer green leafed trees. III This ode to you O Poets and Orators to come, you father Whitman as I join your side, you Congress and American people,you present meditators, spiritual friends & teachers, you O Master of the Diamond Arts,Take this wheel of syllables in hand, these vowels and consonants to breath's endtake this inhalation of black poison to your heart, breath out this blessing from your breast on our creation forests cities oceans deserts rocky flats and mountains in the Ten Directions pacify with exhalation,enrich this Plutonian Ode to explode its empty thunder through earthen thought-worldsMagnetize this howl with heartless compassion, destroy this mountain of Plutonium with ordinary mind and body speech,thus empower this Mind-guard spirit gone out, gone out, gone beyond, gone beyond me, Wake space, so Ah! July 14, 1978"
194,"2018-02-27 21:12:51","Hymn 52","Isaac Watts","Baptism.Matt. 28:19; Acts 2:38. 'Twas the commission of our Lord,""Go teach the nations, and baptize:""The nations have received the wordSince he ascended to the skies.He sits upon th' eternal hills,With grace and pardon in his hands;And sends his cov'nant with the seals,To bless the distant British lands.""Repent, and be baptized,"" he saith,For the remission of your sins:""And thus our sense assists our faith,And shows us what his gospel means.Our souls he washes in his blood,As water makes the body clean;And the good Spirit from our GodDescends like purifying rain.Thus we engage ourselves to thee,And seal our cov'nant with the Lord;O may the great eternal ThreeIn heav'n our solemn vows record!"
195,"2018-02-27 21:12:53","De Profundis","Thomas Hardy","I ""Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum."" - Ps. ci Wintertime nighs; But my bereavement-pain It cannot bring again: Twice no one dies. Flower-petals flee; But, since it once hath been, No more that severing scene Can harrow me. Birds faint in dread: I shall not lose old strength In the lone frost's black length: Strength long since fled! Leaves freeze to dun; But friends can not turn cold This season as of old For him with none. Tempests may scath; But love can not make smart Again this year his heart Who no heart hath. Black is night's cope; But death will not appal One who, past doubtings all, Waits in unhope. De Profundis II ""Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me When the clouds' swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long, And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear, The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here. The stout upstanders say, All's well with us: ruers have nought to rue! And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true? Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career, Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here. Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet; Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet, And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear; Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here? Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash of the First, Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst, Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear, Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here. De Profundis III ""Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum habitantibus Cedar; multum incola fuit aninia mea.""--Ps. cxix. There have been times when I well might have passed and the ending have come - Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, unrueing - Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing: Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have come! Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh, And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border, Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order, Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby. Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood, She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together, Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather, Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued. Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin, Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there, Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there - Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join. Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge could numb, That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and untoward, Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have lowered, Then might the Voice that is law have said ""Cease!"" and the ending have come."
196,"2018-02-27 21:12:56","A City's Death By Fire","Derek Walcott","After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire;Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, IWanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire.All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales,Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar;Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were balesTorn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire.By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, whyShould a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails?In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths;To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breathRebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails,Blessing the death and the baptism by fire."
197,"2018-02-27 21:12:58","The Star-Apple Kingdom","Derek Walcott","There were still shards of an ancient pastoral in those shires of the island where the cattle drank their pools of shadow from an older sky, surviving from when the landscape copied such objects as ""Herefords at Sunset in the valley of the Wye."" The mountain water that fell white from the mill wheel sprinkling like petals from the star-apple trees, and all of the windmills and sugar mills moved by mules on the treadmill of Monday to Monday, would repeat in tongues of water and wind and fire, in tongues of Mission School pickaninnies, like rivers remembering their source, Parish Trelawny, Parish St David, Parish St Andrew, the names afflicting the pastures, the lime groves and fences of marl stone and the cattle with a docile longing, an epochal content. And there were, like old wedding lace in an attic, among the boas and parasols and the tea-colored daguerreotypes, hints of an epochal happiness as ordered and infinite to the child as the great house road to the Great House down a perspective of casuarinas plunging green manes in time to the horses, an orderly life reduced by lorgnettes day and night, one disc the sun, the other the moon, reduced into a pier glass: nannies diminished to dolls, mahogany stairways no larger than those of an album in which the flash of cutlery yellows, as gamboge as the piled cakes of teatime on that latticed bougainvillea verandah that looked down toward a prospect of Cuyp-like Herefords under a sky lurid as a porcelain souvenir with these words: ""Herefords at Sunset in the Valley of the Wye."" Strange, that the rancor of hatred hid in that dream of slow rivers and lily-like parasols, in snaps of fine old colonial families, curled at the edge not from age of from fire or the chemicals, no, not at all, but because, off at its edges, innocently excluded stood the groom, the cattle boy, the housemaid, the gardeners, the tenants, the good Negroes down in the village, their mouth in the locked jaw of a silent scream. A scream which would open the doors to swing wildly all night, that was bringing in heavier clouds, more black smoke than cloud, frightening the cattle in whose bulging eyes the Great House diminished; a scorching wind of a scream that began to extinguish the fireflies, that dried the water mill creaking to a stop as it was about to pronounce Parish Trelawny all over, in the ancient pastoral voice, a wind that blew all without bending anything, neither the leaves of the album nor the lime groves; blew Nanny floating back in white from a feather to a chimerical, chemical pin speck that shrank the drinking Herefords to brown porcelain cows on a mantelpiece, Trelawny trembling with dusk, the scorched pastures of the old benign Custos; blew far the decent servants and the lifelong cook, and shriveled to a shard that ancient pastoral of dusk in a gilt-edged frame now catching the evening sun in Jamaica, making both epochs one. He looked out from the Great House windows on clouds that still held the fragrance of fire, he saw the Botanical Gardens officially drown in a formal dusk, where governors had strolled and black gardeners had smiled over glinting shears at the lilies of parasols on the floating lawns, the flame trees obeyed his will and lowered their wicks, the flowers tightened their fists in the name of thrift, the porcelain lamps of ripe cocoa, the magnolia's jet dimmed on the one circuit with the ginger lilies and left a lonely bulb on the verandah, and, had his mandate extended to that ceiling of star-apple candelabra, he would have ordered the sky to sleep, saying, I'm tired, save the starlight for victories, we can't afford it, leave the moon on for one more hour,and that's it. But though his power, the given mandate, extended from tangerine daybreaks to star-apple dusks, his hand could not dam that ceaseless torrent of dust that carried the shacks of the poor, to their root-rock music, down the gullies of Yallahs and August Town, to lodge them on thorns of maca, with their rags crucified by cactus, tins, old tires, cartons; from the black Warieka Hills the sky glowed fierce as the dials of a million radios, a throbbing sunset that glowed like a grid where the dread beat rose from the jukebox of Kingston. He saw the fountains dried of quadrilles, the water-music of the country dancers, the fiddlers like fifes put aside. He had to heal this malarial island in its bath of bay leaves, its forests tossing with fever, the dry cattle groaning like winches, the grass that kept shaking its head to remember its name. No vowels left in the mill wheel, the river. Rock stone. Rock stone. The mountains rolled like whales through phosphorous stars, as he swayed like a stone down fathoms into sleep, drawn by that magnet which pulls down half the world between a star and a star, by that black power that has the assassin dreaming of snow, that poleaxes the tyrant to a sleeping child. The house is rocking at anchor, but as he falls his mind is a mill wheel in moonlight, and he hears, in the sleep of his moonlight, the drowned bell of Port Royal's cathedral, sees the copper pennies of bubbles rising from the empty eye-pockets of green buccaneers, the parrot fish floating from the frayed shoulders of pirates, sea horses drawing gowned ladies in their liquid promenade across the moss-green meadows of the sea; he heard the drowned choirs under Palisadoes, a hymn ascending to earth from a heaven inverted by water, a crab climbing the steeple, and he climbed from that submarine kingdom as the evening lights came on in the institute, the scholars lamplit in their own aquarium, he saw them mouthing like parrot fish, as he passed upward from that baptism, their history lessons, the bubbles like ideas which he could not break: Jamaica was captured by Penn and Venables, Port Royal perished in a cataclysmic earthquake. Before the coruscating façades of cathedrals from Santiago to Caracas, where penitential archbishops washed the feet of paupers (a parenthetical moment that made the Caribbean a baptismal font, turned butterflies to stone, and whitened like doves the buzzards circling municipal garbage), the Caribbean was borne like an elliptical basin in the hands of acolytes, and a people were absolved of a history which they did not commit; the slave pardoned his whip, and the dispossessed said the rosary of islands for three hundred years, a hymn that resounded like the hum of the sea inside a sea cave, as their knees turned to stone, while the bodies of patriots were melting down walls still crusted with mute outcries of La Revolucion! ""San Salvador, pray for us,St. Thomas, San Domingo, ora pro nobis, intercede for us, Sancta Lucia of no eyes,"" and when the circular chaplet reached the last black bead of Sancta Trinidad they began again, their knees drilled into stone, where Colon had begun, with San Salvador's bead, beads of black colonies round the necks of Indians. And while they prayed for an economic miracle, ulcers formed on the municipal portraits, the hotels went up, and the casinos and brothels, and the empires of tobacco, sugar, and bananas, until a black woman, shawled like a buzzard, climbed up the stairs and knocked at the door of his dream, whispering in the ear of the keyhole: ""Let me in, I'm finished with praying, I'm the Revolution. I am the darker, the older America."" She was as beautiful as a stone in the sunrise, her voice had the gutturals of machine guns across khaki deserts where the cactus flower detonates like grenades, her sex was the slit throat of an Indian, her hair had the blue-black sheen of the crow. She was a black umbrella blown inside out by the wind of revolution, La Madre Dolorosa, a black rose of sorrow, a black mine of silence, raped wife, empty mother, Aztec virgin transfixed by arrows from a thousand guitars, a stone full of silence, which, if it gave tongue to the tortures done in the name of the Father, would curdle the blood of the marauding wolf, the fountain of generals, poets, and cripples who danced without moving over their graves with each revolution; her Caesarean was stitched by the teeth of machine guns,and every sunset she carried the Caribbean's elliptical basin as she had once carried the penitential napkins to be the footbath of dictators, Trujillo, Machado, and those whose faces had yellowed like posters on municipal walls. Now she stroked his hair until it turned white, but she would not understand that he wanted no other power but peace, that he wanted a revolution without any bloodshed, he wanted a history without any memory, streets without statues, and a geography without myth. He wanted no armies but those regiments of bananas, thick lances of cane, and he sobbed,""I am powerless, except for love."" She faded from him, because he could not kill; she shrunk to a bat that hung day and night in the back of his brain. He rose in his dream. (to be continued)"
198,"2018-02-27 21:13:02","The Halt Before Rome--September 1867","Algernon Charles Swinburne","Is it so, that the sword is broken,Our sword, that was halfway drawn?Is it so, that the light was a spark,That the bird we hailed as the larkSang in her sleep in the dark,And the song we took for a tokenBore false witness of dawn?Spread in the sight of the lion,Surely, we said, is the netSpread but in vain, and the snareVain; for the light is aware,And the common, the chainless air,Of his coming whom all we cry on;Surely in vain is it set.Surely the day is on our side,And heaven, and the sacred sun;Surely the stars, and the brightImmemorial inscrutable night:Yea, the darkness, because of our light,Is no darkness, but blooms as a bower-sideWhen the winter is over and done;Blooms underfoot with young grassesGreen, and with leaves overhead,Windflowers white, and the lowNew-dropped blossoms of snow;And or ever the May winds blow,And or ever the March wind passes,Flames with anemones red.We are here in the world's bower-garden,We that have watched out the snow.Surely the fruitfuller showers,The splendider sunbeams are ours;Shall winter return on the flowers,And the frost after April harden,And the fountains in May not flow?We have in our hands the shiningAnd the fire in our hearts of a star.Who are we that our tongues should palter,Hearts bow down, hands falter,Who are clothed as with flame from the altar,That the kings of the earth, repining,Far off, watch from afar?Woe is ours if we doubt or dissemble,Woe, if our hearts not abide.Are our chiefs not among us, we said,Great chiefs, living and dead,To lead us glad to be led?For whose sake, if a man of us tremble,He shall not be on our side.What matter if these lands tarry,That tarried (we said) not of old?France, made drunken by fate,England, that bore up the weightOnce of men's freedom, a freightHoly, but heavy to carryFor hands overflowing with gold.Though this be lame, and the otherFleet, but blind from the sun,And the race be no more to these,Alas! nor the palm to seize,Who are weary and hungry of ease,Yet, O Freedom, we said, O our mother,Is there not left to thee one?Is there not left of thy daughters,Is there not one to thine hand?Fairer than these, and of fameHigher from of old by her name;Washed in her tears, and in flameBathed as in baptism of waters,Unto all men a chosen land.Her hope in her heart was broken,Fire was upon her, and clomb,Hiding her, high as her head;And the world went past her, and said(We heard it say) she was dead;And now, behold, she bath spoken,She that was dead, saying, ""Rome.""O mother of all men's nations,Thou knowest if the deaf world heard!Heard not now to her lowestDepths, where the strong blood slowestBeats at her bosom, thou knowest,In her toils, in her dim tribulations,Rejoiced not, hearing the word.The sorrowful, bound unto sorrow,The woe-worn people, and allThat of old were discomforted,And men that famish for bread,And men that mourn for their dead,She bade them be glad on the morrow,Who endured in the day of her thrall.The blind, and the people in prison,Souls without hope, without home,How glad were they all that heard!When the winged white flame of the wordPassed over men's dust, and stirredDeath; for Italia was risen,And risen her light upon Rome.The light of her sword in the gatewayShone, an unquenchable flame,Bloodless, a sword to release,A light from the eyes of peace,To bid grief utterly cease,And the wrong of the old world straightwayPass from the face of her fame:Hers, whom we turn to and cry on,Italy, mother of men:From the light of the face of her glory,At the sound of the storm of her story,That the sanguine shadows and hoaryShould flee from the foot of the lion,Lion-like, forth of his den.As the answering of thunder to thunderIs the storm-beaten sound of her past;As the calling of sea unto seaIs the noise of her years yet to be;For this ye knew not is she,Whose bonds are broken in sunder;This is she at the last.So spake we aloud, high-minded,Full of our will; and behold,The speech that was halfway spokenBreaks, as a pledge that is broken,As a king's pledge, leaving in tokenGrief only for high hopes blinded,New grief grafted on old.We halt by the walls of the city,Within sound of the clash of her chain.Hearing, we know that in thereThe lioness chafes in her lair,Shakes the storm of her hair,Struggles in hands without pity,Roars to the lion in vain.Whose hand is stretched forth upon her?Whose curb is white with her foam?Clothed with the cloud of his deeds,Swathed in the shroud of his creeds,Who is this that has trapped her and leads,Who turns to despair and dishonourHer name, her name that was Rome?Over fields without harvest or culture,Over hordes without honour or love,Over nations that groan with their kings,As an imminent pestilence flingsSwift death from her shadowing wings,So he, who hath claws as a vulture,Plumage and beak as a dove.He saith, ""I am pilot and haven,Light and redemption I amUnto souls overlaboured,"" he saith;And to all men the blast of his breathIs a savour of death unto death;And the Dove of his worship a raven,And a wolf-cub the life-giving Lamb.He calls his sheep as a shepherd,Calls from the wilderness home,""Come unto me and be fed,""To feed them with ashes for breadAnd grass from the graves of the dead,Leaps on the fold as a leopard,Slays, and says, ""I am Rome,""Rome, having rent her in sunder,With the clasp of an adder he clasps;Swift to shed blood are his feet,And his lips, that have man for their meat,Smoother than oil, and more sweetThan honey, but hidden thereunderFesters the poison of asps.As swords are his tender mercies,His kisses as mortal stings;Under his hallowing handsLife dies down in all lands;Kings pray to him, prone where he stands,And his blessings, as other men's curses,Disanoint where they consecrate kings.With an oil of unclean consecration,With effusion of blood and of tears,With uplifting of cross and of keys,Priest, though thou hallow us these,Yet even as they cling to thy kneesNation awakens by nation,King by king disappears.How shall the spirit be loyalTo the shell of a spiritless thing?Erred once, in only a word,The sweet great song that we heardPoured upon Tuscany, erred,Calling a crowned man royalThat was no more than a king.Sea-eagle of English feather,A song-bird beautiful-souled,She knew not them that she sang;The golden trumpet that rangFrom Florence, in vain for them, sprangAs a note in the nightingales' weatherFar over Fiesole rolled.She saw not--happy, not seeing -Saw not as we with her eyesAspromonte; she feltNever the heart in her meltAs in us when the news was dealtMelted all hope out of being,Dropped all dawn from the skies.In that weary funereal season,In that heart-stricken grief-ridden time,The weight of a king and the worth,With anger and sorrowful mirth,We weighed in the balance of earth,And light was his word as a treason,And heavy his crown as a crime.Banners of kings shall ye followNone, and have thrones on your sideNone; ye shall gather and growSilently, row upon row,Chosen of Freedom to goGladly where darkness may swallow,Gladly where death may divide.Have we not men with us royal,Men the masters of things?In the days when our life is made new,All souls perfect and trueShall adore whom their forefathers slew;And these indeed shall be loyal,And those indeed shall be kings.Yet for a space they abide with us,Yet for a little they stand,Bearing the heat of the day.When their presence is taken away,We shall wonder and worship, and say,""Was not a star on our side with us?Was not a God at our hand?""These, O men, shall ye honour,Liberty only, and these.For thy sake and for all men's and mine,Brother, the crowns of them shineLighting the way to her shrine,That our eyes may be fastened upon her,That our hands may encompass her knees.In this day is the sign of her shown to you;Choose ye, to live or to die,Now is her harvest in hand;Now is her light in the land;Choose ye, to sink or to stand,For the might of her strength is made known to youNow, and her arm is on high.Serve not for any man's wages,Pleasure nor glory nor gold;Not by her side are they wonWho saith unto each of you, ""Son,Silver and gold have I none;I give but the love of all ages,And the life of my people of old.""Fear not for any man's terrors;Wait not for any man's word;Patiently, each in his place,Gird up your loins to the race;Following the print of her pace,Purged of desires and of errors,March to the tune ye have heard.March to the tune of the voice of her,Breathing the balm of her breath,Loving the light of her skies.Blessed is he on whose eyesDawns but her light as he dies;Blessed are ye that make choice of her,Equal to life and to death.Ye that when faith is nigh frozen,Ye that when hope is nigh gone,Still, over wastes, over waves,Still, among wrecks, among graves,Follow the splendour that saves,Happy, her children, her chosen,Loyally led of her on.The sheep of the priests, and the cattleThat feed in the penfolds of kings,Sleek is their flock and well-fed;Hardly she giveth you bread,Hardly a rest for the head,Till the day of the blast of the battleAnd the storm of the wind of her wings.Ye that have joy in your living,Ye that are careful to live,You her thunders go by:Live, let men be, let them lie,Serve your season, and die;Gifts have your masters for giving,Gifts hath not Freedom to give;She, without shelter or station,She, beyond limit or bar,Urges to slumberless speedArmies that famish, that bleed,Sowing their lives for her seed,That their dust may rebuild her a nation,That their souls may relight her a star.Happy are all they that follow her;Them shall no trouble cast down;Though she slay them, yet shall they trust in her,For unsure there is nought nor unjust in her,Blemish is none, neither rust in her;Though it threaten, the night shall not swallow her,Tempest and storm shall not drown.Hither, O strangers, that cry for her,Holding your lives in your hands,Hither, for here is your light,Where Italy is, and her might;Strength shall be given you to fight,Grace shall be given you to die for her,For the flower, for the lady of lands;Turn ye, whose anguish oppressing youCrushes, asleep and awake,For the wrong which is wrought as of yore;That Italia may give of her store,Having these things to give and no more;Only her hands on you, blessing you;Only a pang for her sake;Only her bosom to die on;Only her heart for a home,And a name with her children to beFrom Calabrian to Adrian seaFamous in cities made freeThat ring to the roar of the lionProclaiming republican Rome."
199,"2018-02-27 21:13:03","A Song To David","Christopher Smart","I O THOU, that sit'st upon a throne, With harp of high majestic tone, To praise the King of kings; And voice of heav'n-ascending swell, Which, while its deeper notes excell, Clear, as a clarion, rings: II To bless each valley, grove and coast, And charm the cherubs to the post Of gratitude in throngs; To keep the days on Zion's mount, And send the year to his account, With dances and with songs: III O Servant of God's holiest charge, The minister of praise at large, Which thou may'st now receive; From thy blest mansion hail and hear, From topmost eminence appear To this the wreath I weave. IV Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean, Sublime, contemplative, serene, Strong, constant, pleasant, wise! Bright effluence of exceeding grace; Best man!—the swiftest and the race, The peril, and the prize! V Great—from the lustre of his crown, From Samuel's horn, and God's renown, Which is the people's voice; For all the host, from rear to van, Applauded and embrac'd the man— The man of God's own choice. VI Valiant—the word, and up he rose; The fight—he triumph'd o'er the foes, Whom God's just laws abhor; And, arm'd in gallant faith, he took Against the boaster, from the brook, The weapons of the war. VII Pious—magnificent and grand; 'Twas he the famous temple plann'd; (The seraph in his soul:) Foremost to give his Lord His dues, Foremost to bless the welcome news, And foremost to condole. VIII Good—from Jehudah's genuine vein, From God's best nature good in grain, His aspect and his heart; To pity, to forgive, to save, Witness En-gedi's conscious cave, And Shimei's blunted dart. IX Clean—if perpetual prayer be pure, And love, which could itself inure To fasting and to fear— Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet, To smite the lyre, the dance complete, To play the sword and spear. X Sublime—invention ever young, Of vast conception, tow'ring tongue, To God th'eternal theme; Notes from yon exaltations caught, Unrival'd royalty of thought, O'er meaner strains supreme. XI Contemplative—on God to fix His musings, and above the six The Sabbath-day he blest; 'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest prun'd, And heav'nly melancholy tun'd, To bless and bear the rest. XII Serene—to sow the seeds of peace, Rememb'ring, when he watch'd the fleece, How sweetly Kidron purl'd— To further knowledge, silence vice, And plant plant perpetual paradise, When God had calm'd the world. XIII Strong—in the Lord, Who could defy Satan, and all his pow'rs that lie In sempiternal night; And hell, and horror, and despair Were as the lion and the bear To his undaunted might. XIV Constant—in love to God, THE TRUTH, Age, manhood, infancy, and youth— To Jonathan his friend Constant, beyond the verge of death; And Zilba, and Mephibosheth, His endless fame attend. XV Pleasant—various as the year; Man, soul, and angel, without peer, Priest, champion, sage, and boy; In armor, or in ephod clad, His pomp, his piety was glad; Majestic was his joy. XVI Wise—in recovery from his fall, Whence rose his eminence o'er all, Of all the most revil'd; The light of Israel in his ways, Wise are his precepts, prayer and praise, And counsel to his child. XVII His muse, bright angel of his verse, Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, For all the pangs that rage; Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, The more than Michal of his bloom, Th'Abishag of his age. XVIII He sung of God—the mighty source Of all things—the stupendous force On which all strength depends; From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes, All period, pow'r, and enterprise Commences, reigns, and ends. XIX Angels—their ministry and meed, Which to and fro with blessings speed, Or with their citherns wait; Where Michael with his millions bows, Where dwells the seraph and his spouse The cherub and her mate. XX O David, scholar of the Lord! Of God and Love—the Saint elect For infinite applause— To rule the land, and briny broad, To be laborious in His laud, And heroes in His cause. XXI The world—the clust'ring spheres He made, The glorious light, the soothing shade, Dale, champaign, grove, and hill; The multitudinous abyss, Where secrecy remains in bliss, And wisdom hides her skill XXII Trees, plants, and flow'rs—of virtuous root; Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit, Choice gums and precious balm; Bless ye the nosegay in the vale, And with the sweetness of the gale Enrich the thankful psalm. XXIII Of fowl—e'en ev'ry beak and wing Which cheer the winter, hail the spring, That live in peace or prey; They that make music, or that mock, The quail, the brave domestic cock, The raven, swan, and jay. XXIV Of fishes—ev'ry size and shape, Which nature frames of light escape, Devouring man to shun: The shells are in the wealthy deep, The shoals upon the surface leap, And love the glancing sun. XXV Of beasts—the beaver plods his task, While the sleek tigers roll and bask, Nor yet the shades arouse: Her cave the mining coney scoops;Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops, The kids exult and browse. XXVI Of gems—their virtue and their price, Which hid in earth from man's device, Their darts of lustre sheathe; The jasper of the master's stamp, The topaz blazing like a lamp, Among the mines beneath. XXVII Blest was the tenderness he felt When to his graceful harp he knelt, And did for audience call; When Satan with his hand he quell'd And in serene suspense he held The frantic throes of Saul. XXVIII His furious foes no more malign'd As he such melody divin'd, And sense and soul detain'd; Now striking strong, now soothing soft, He sent the godly sounds aloft, Or in delight refrain'd. XXIX When up to heav'n his thoughts he pil'd From fervent lips fair Michal smil'd, As blush to blush she stood; And chose herself the queen, and gave Her utmost from her heart, ""so brave, And plays his hymns so good."" XXX The pillars of the Lord are seven, Which stand from earth to topmost heav'n; His wisdom drew the plan; His WORD accomplish'd the design, From brightest gem to deepest mine, From CHRIST enthron'd to man. XXXI Alpha, the cause of causes, first In station, fountain, whence the burst Of light, and blaze of day; Whence bold attempt, and brave advance, Have motion, life, and ordinance And heav'n itself its stay. XXXII Gamma supports the glorious arch On which angelic legions march, And is with sapphires pav'd; Thence the fleet clouds are sent adrift, And thence the painted folds, that lift The crimson veil, are wav'd. XXXIII Eta with living sculpture breathes, With verdant carvings, flow'ry wreathes, Of never-wasting bloom; In strong relief his goodly base All instruments of labor grace, The trowel, spade, and loom. XXXIV Next Theta stands to the Supreme— Who form'd, in number, sign, and scheme, Th'illustrious lights that are: And one address'd his saffrom robe, And one, clad in a silver globe, Held rule with ev'ry star. XXXV Iota's tun'd to choral hymns Of those that fly, while he that swims In thankful safety lurks; And foot, and chapitre, and niche,The various histories enrich Of God's record'd works. XXXVI Sigma presents the social droves, With him that solitary roves, And man of all the chief; Fair on whose face, and stately frame, Did God impress His hallow'd name, For ocular belief. XXXVII OMEGA! GREATEST and the BEST, Stands sacred to the day of rest, For gratitude and thought; Which bless'd the world upon his pole, And gave the universe his goal, And clos'd th'infernal draught. XXXVIII O DAVID, scholar of the Lord! Such is thy science, whence reward And infinite degree; O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe! God's harp thy symbol, and thy type The lion and the bee! XXXIX There is but One who ne'er rebell'd, But One by passion unimpell'd, By pleasures unentic'd; He from Himself His semblance sent, Grand object of His own content, And saw the God in CHRIST. XL Tell them, I am, JEHOVAH said To MOSES; while earth heard in dread, And, smitten to the heart, At once above, beneath, around, All Nature, without voice or sound, Repli'd, ""O Lord, THOU ART."" XLI Thou art—to give and to confirm, For each his talent and his term; All flesh thy bounties share: Thou shalt not call thy brother fool; The porches of the Christian school Are meekness, peace, and pray'r. XLII Open, and naked of offence, Man's made of mercy, soul, and sense; God arm'd the snail and wilk;Be good to him that pulls thy plough; Due food and care, due rest, allow For her that yields thee milk. XLIII Rise up before the hoary head, And God's benign commandment dread, Which says thou shalt not die: ""Not as I will, but as Thou wilt,"" Pray'd He Whose conscience knew no guilt; With Whose bless'd pattern vie. XLIV Use all thy passions!—love is thine, And joy, and jealousy divine; Thine hope's eternal fort, And care thy leisure to disturb, With fear concupiscence to curb, And rapture to transport. XLV Act simply, as occasion asks; Put mellow wine in season'd casks; Till not with ass and bull: Remember thy baptismal bond; Keep from commixtures foul and fond, Nor work thy flax with wool. XLVI Distribute: pay the Lord His tithe, And make the widow's heart-strings blythe; Resort with those that weep: As you from all and each expect, For all and each thy love direct, And render as you reap. XLVII The slander and its bearer spurn, And propagating praise sojourn To make thy welcome last; Turn from Old Adam to the New; By hope futurity pursue; Look upwards to the past. XLVIII Control thine eye, salute success, Honor the wiser, happier bless, And for thy neighbor feel; Grutch not of Mammon and his leav'n,Work emulation up to heav'n By knowledge and by zeal. XLIX O DAVID, highest in the list Of worthies, on God's ways insist, The genuine word repeat: Vain are the documents of men, And vain the flourish of the pen That keeps the fool's conceit. L PRAISE above all—for praise prevails; Heap up the measure, load the scales, And good to goodness add: The gen'rous soul her Saviour aids, But peevish obloquy degrades; The Lord is great and glad. LI For ADORATION all the ranks Of angels yield eternal thanks, And DAVID in the midst; With God's good poor, which last and least In man's esteem, thou to thy feast, O blessed bridegroom, bidst. LII For ADORATION seasons change, And order, truth, and beauty range, Adjust, attract, and fill: The grass the polyanthus checks; And polish'd porphyry reflects, By the descending rill. LIII rich almonds color to the prime For ADORATION; tendrils climb, And fruit-trees pledge their gems; And Ivis with her gorgeous vest,Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, And bell-flowers bow their stems. LIV With vinous syrup cedars spout; From rocks pure honey gushing out, For ADORATION springs; All scenes of painting crowd the map Of nature; to the mermaid's pap The scaled infant clings. LV The spotted ounce and playsome cubsRun rustling 'mongst the flow'ring shrubs, And lizards feed the moss; For ADORATION beasts embark, While waves upholding halcyon's ark No longer roar and toss. LVI While Israel sits beneath his fig, With coral root and amber sprig The wean'd advent'rer sports; Where to the palm the jasmine cleaves, For ADORATION 'mongst the leaves The gale his peace reports. LVII Increasing days their reign exalt, Nor in the pink and mottled vault The opposing spirits tilt; And, by the coasting reader spi'd, The silverlings and crusions glide For ADORATION gilt. LVIII For ADORATION rip'ning canes And cocoa's purest milk detains The western pilgrim's staff; Where rain in clasping boughs enclos'd, And vines with oranges dispos'd, Embow'r the social laugh. LIX Now labor his reward receives, For ADORATION counts his sheaves To peace, her bounteous prince; The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes,And apples of ten thousand tribes, And quick peculiar quince. LX The wealthy crops of whit'ning rice, 'Mongst thyme woods and groves of spice, For ADORATION grow; And, marshall'd in the fenced land, The peaches and pom'granates stand, Where wild carnations blow. LXI The laurels with the winter strive; The crocus burnishes alive Upon the snow-clad earth: For ADORATION myrtles stay To keep the garden from dismay, And bless the sight from dearth. LXII The pheasant shows his pompous neck; The ermine, jealous of a speck, With fear eldues offence: The sable, with his glossy pride, For ADORATION is describ'd, Where frosts the waves condense. LXIII The cheerful holly, pensive yew, And holy thorn, their trim renew; The squirrel hoards his nuts; All creatures batten o'er their stores, And careful nature all her doors For ADORATION shuts. LXIV For ADORATION, DAVID's psalms Life up the heart to deeds of alms; And he, who kneels and chants, Prevails his passions to control, Finds meat and med'cine to the soul, Which for translation pants. LXV For ADORATION, beyond match, The scholar bullfinch aims to catch The soft flute's iv'ry touch; And, careless on the hazel spray, The daring redbreast keeps at bay The damsel's greedy clutch. LXVI For ADORATION in the skies, The Lord's philosopher espies The Dog, the Ram, and Rose; The planet's ring, Orion's sword; Nor is his greatness less ador'd In the vile worm that glows. LXVII For ADORATION, on the strings The western breezes work their wings, The captive ear to sooth. Hark! 'Tis a voice—how still, and small— That makes the cataracts to fall, Or bids the sea be smooth! LXVIII For ADORATION, incense comes From bezoar, and Arabian gums; And from the civet's fur: But as for prayer, or e'er it faints, Far better is the breath of saints Than galbanum and myrrh. LXIX For ADORATION from the down Of dam'sins to th'anana's crown, God sends to tempt the taste; And while the luscious zest invites, The sense, that in the scene delights, Commands desire be chaste. LXX For ADORATION, all the paths Of grace are open, all the baths Of purity refresh; And all the rays of glory beam To deck the man of God's esteem, Who triumphs o'er the flesh. LXXI For ADORATION, in the dome Of Christ, the sparrows find a home; And on His olives perch: The swallow also dwells with thee, O man of God's humility, Within his Saviour CHURCH. LXXII Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, And drops upon the leafy limes; Sweet, Hermon's fragrant air: Sweet is the lily's silver bell, And sweet the wakeful tapers smell That watch for early pray'r. LXXIII Sweet the young nurse with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence; Sweet when the lost arrive: Sweet the musician's ardour beats, While his vague mind's in quest of sweets, The choicest flow'rs to hive. LXXIV Sweeter in all the strains of love, The language of thy turtle dove, Pair'd to thy swelling chord; Sweeter, with ev'ry grace endu'd, The glory of thy gratitude, Respir'd unto the Lord. LXXV Strong is the horse upon his speed; Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, Which makes at once his game: Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; Strong through the turbulent profound Shoots xiphias to his aim. LXXVI Strong is the lion—like a coal His eyeball—like a bastion's mole His chest against his foes: Strong, the gier-eagle on his sail, Strong against tide, th'enormous whale Emerges as he goes. LXXVII But stronger still in earth and air, And in the sea, the man of pray'r; And far beneath the tide; And in the seat to faith assign'd, Where ask is have, where seek is find, Where knock is open wide. LXXVIII Beauteous the fleet before the gale; Beauteous the multitudes in mail, Rank'd arms and crested heads: Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild, Walk, water, meditated wild, And all the bloomy beds. LXXIX Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; And beauteous, when the veil's withdrawn, The virgin to her spouse: Beauteous the temple, deck'd and fill'd, When to the heav'n of heav'ns they build Their heart-directed vows. LXXX Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these, The shepherd king upon his knees, For his momentous trust; With wish of infinite conceit, For man, beast, mute, the small and great, And prostrate dust to dust. LXXXI Precious the bounteous widow's mite; And precious, for extreme delight, The largess from the churl: Precious the ruby's blushing blaze, And alba's blest imperial rays, And pure cerulean pearl. LXXXII Precious the penitential tear; And precious is the sigh sincere; Acceptable to God: And precious are the winning flow'rs, In gladsome Israel's feast of bow'rs, Bound on the hallow'd sod. LXXXIII More precious that diviner part Of David, ev'n the Lord's own heart, Great, beautiful, and new: In all things where it was intent, In all extremes, in each event, Proof—answ'ring true to true. LXXXIV Glorious the sun in mid career; Glorious th'assembled fires appear; Glorious the comet's train: Glorious the trumpet and alarm; Glorious th'almighty stretch'd-out arm; Glorious th'enraptur'd main: LXXXV Glorious the northern lights a-stream; Glorious the song, when God's the theme; Glorious the thunder's roar: Glorious hosanna from the den; Glorious the catholic amen; Glorious the martyr's gore: LXXXVI Glorious—more glorious, is the crown Of Him that brought salvation down, By meekness, call'd thy Son: Thou at stupendous truth believ'd;— And now the matchless deed's achiev'd, DETERMIN'D, DAR'D, AND DONE."
200,"2018-02-27 21:13:08","H. Baptism II","George Herbert","Since, Lord, to theeA narrow way and little gateIs all the passage, on my infancyThou didst lay hold, and antedateMy faith in me.O let me still Write thee great God, and me a child: Let me be soft and supple to thy will, Small to my self, to others mild, Behither ill.Although by stealthMy flesh get on, yet let her sisterMy soul bid nothing, but preserve her wealth: The growth of flesh is but a blister; Childhood is health."