The Blue Poetry Book

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY

The noon was shady, and soft airsSwept Ouse’s silent tide,When, ’scaped from literary cares,I wander’d on his side.My spaniel, prettiest of his race,And high in pedigree, —(Two nymphs adorn’d with every graceThat spaniel found for me,)Now wanton’d lost in flags and reeds,Now, starting into sight,Pursued the swallow o’er the meadsWith scarce a slower flight.It was the time when Ouse display’dHis lilies newly blown;Their beauties I intent survey’d,And one I wish’d my own.With cane extended far I soughtTo steer it close to land;But still the prize, though nearly caught,Escaped my eager hand.Beau mark’d my unsuccessful painsWith fix’d considerate face,And puzzling set his puppy brainsTo comprehend the case.But with a cherup clear and strongDispersing all his dream,I thence withdrew, and follow’d longThe windings of the stream.My ramble ended, I return’d;Beau, trotting far before,The floating wreath again discern’d,And plunging left the shore.I saw him with that lily cropp’dImpatient swim to meetMy quick approach, and soon he dropp’dThe treasure at my feet.Charm’d with the sight, ‘The world,’ I cried,Shall hear of this thy deed;My dog shall mortify the prideOf man’s superior breed;‘But chief myself I will enjoin,Awake at duty’s call,To show a love as prompt as thineTo Him who gives me all.’W. Cowper.

TO FLUSH, MY DOG

Loving friend, the gift of one,Who her own true faith hath runThrough thy lower nature;Be my benediction saidWith my hand upon thy head,Gentle fellow-creature!Like a lady’s ringlets brown,Flow thy silken ears adownEither side demurely,Of thy silver-suited breastShining out from all the restOf thy body purely.Darkly brown thy body is,Till the sunshine, striking this,Alchemise its dulness, —When the sleek curls manifoldFlash all over into gold,With a burnished fulness.Underneath my stroking hand,Startled eyes of hazel blandKindling, growing larger, —Up thou leapest with a spring,Full of prank and curvetting,Leaping like a charger.Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;Leap! thy slender feet are bright,Canopied in fringes.Leap – those tasselled ears of thineFlicker strangely, fair and fine,Down their golden inches.Yet, my pretty sportive friend,Little is’t to such an endThat I praise thy rareness!Other dogs may be thy peersHaply in these drooping ears,And this glossy fairness.But of thee it shall be said,This dog watched beside a bedDay and night unweary, —Watched within a curtained room,Where no sunbeam brake the gloomRound the sick and dreary.Roses, gathered for a vase,In that chamber died apace,Beam and breeze resigning —This dog only, waited on,Knowing that when light is gone,Love remains for shining.Other dogs in thymy dewTracked the hares and followed throughSunny moor or meadow —This dog only, crept and creptNext a languid cheek that slept,Sharing in the shadow.Other dogs of loyal cheerBounded at the whistle clear,Up the woodside hieing —This dog only, watched in reachOf a faintly uttered speech,Or a louder sighing.And if one or two quick tearsDropped upon his glossy ears,Or a sigh came double, —Up he sprang in eager haste,Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,In a tender trouble.And this dog was satisfied,If a pale thin hand would glide,Down his dewlaps sloping, —Which he pushed his nose within,After, – platforming his chinOn the palm left open.This dog, if a friendly voiceCall him now to blyther choiceThan such chamber-keeping,‘Come out!’ praying from the door,Presseth backward as before,Up against me leaping.Therefore to this dog will I,Tenderly not scornfully,Render praise and favour!With my hand upon his head,Is my benediction saidTherefore, and for ever.And because he loves me so,Better than his kind will doOften, man or woman, —Give I back more love againThan dogs often take of men, —Leaning from my Human.Blessings on thee, dog of mine,Pretty collars make thee fine,Sugared milk make fat thee!Pleasures wag on in thy tail —Hands of gentle motions failNevermore, to pat thee!Downy pillow take thy head,Silken coverlid bestead,Sunshine help thy sleeping!No fly’s buzzing wake thee up —No man break thy purple cup,Set for drinking deep in.Whiskered cats arointed flee —Sturdy stoppers keep from theeCologne distillations!Nuts lie in thy path for stones,And thy feast-day macaroonsTurn to daily rations!Mock I thee, in wishing weal? —Tears are in my eyes to feelThou art made so straitly,Blessing needs must straiten too, —Little canst thou joy or do,Thou who lovest greatly.Yet be blessed to the heightOf all good and all delightPervious to thy nature, —Only loved beyond that line,With a love that answers thine,Loving fellow-creature!Mrs. Browning.

ALICE BRAND

IMerry it is in the good greenwood,When the mavis and merle are singing,When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,And the hunter’s horn is ringing.’O Alice Brand, my native landIs lost for love of you;And we must hold by wood and wold,As outlaws wont to do!’O Alice, ’twas all for thy locks so bright,And ’twas all for thine eyes so blue,That on the night of our luckless flight,Thy brother bold I slew.’Now must I teach to hew the beech,The hand that held the glaive,For leaves to spread our lowly bed,And stakes to fence our cave.’And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,That wont on harp to stray,A cloak must shear from the slaughter’d deer,To keep the cold away.’ —– ’O Richard! if my brother died,’Twas but a fatal chance:For darkling was the battle tried,And fortune sped the lance.’If pall and vair no more I wear,Nor thou the crimson sheen,As warm, we’ll say, is the russet gray;As gay the forest-green.‘And, Richard, if our lot be hard,And lost thy native land,Still Alice has her own Richàrd,And he his Alice Brand.’II’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood,So blithe Lady Alice is singing;On the beech’s pride, and oak’s brown side,Lord Richard’s axe is ringing.Up spoke the moody Elfin King,Who wonn’d within the hill, —Like wind in the porch of a ruin’d church,His voice was ghostly shrill.’Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,Our moonlight circle’s screen?Or who comes here to chase the deer,Beloved of our Elfin Queen?Or who may dare on wold to wearThe fairies’ fatal green?’Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,For thou wert christen’d man:For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,For mutter’d word or ban.‘Lay on him the curse of the wither’d heart,The curse of the sleepless eye;Till he wish and pray that his life would part,Nor yet find leave to die!’III’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood,Though the birds have still’d their singing;The evening blaze doth Alice raise,And Richard is fagots bringing.Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,Before Lord Richard stands,And as he cross’d and bless’d himself,‘I fear not sign,’ quoth the grisly elf,‘That is made with bloody hands.’But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,That woman void of fear, —‘And if there’s blood upon his hand,’Tis but the blood of deer.’– ‘Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood!It cleaves unto his hand,The stain of thine own kindly blood,The blood of Ethert Brand.’Then forward stepp’d she, Alice Brand,And made the holy sign, —‘And if there’s blood on Richard’s hand,A spotless hand is mine.‘And I conjure thee, Demon elf,By Him whom Demons fear,To show us whence thou art thyself,And what thine errand here?’IV– ‘’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in Fairy-land,When fairy birds are singing,When the court doth ride by their monarch’s side,With bit and bridle ringing:’And gaily shines the Fairy-land —But all is glistening show,Like the idle gleam that December’s beamCan dart on ice and snow.’And fading, like that varied gleam,Is our inconstant shape,Who now like knight and lady seem,And now like dwarf and ape.’It was between the night and day,When the Fairy King has power,That I sunk down in a sinful fray,And ’twixt life and death, was snatch’d awayTo the joyless Elfin bower.‘But wist I of a woman bold,Who thrice my brow durst sign,I might regain my mortal mould,As fair a form as thine.’She cross’d him once – she cross’d him twice —That lady was so brave;The fouler grew his goblin hue,The darker grew the cave.She cross’d him thrice, that lady bold!– He rose beneath her handThe fairest knight on Scottish mould,Her brother, Ethert Brand!– Merry it is in good greenwood,When the mavis and merle are singing;But merrier were they in Dumfermline grayWhen all the bells were ringing.Sir W. Scott.

O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

O, wert thou in the cauld blast,On yonder lea, on yonder lea,My plaidie to the angry airt,I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.Or did misfortune’s bitter stormsAround thee blaw, around thee blaw,Thy bield should be my bosom,To share it a’, to share it a’.Or were I in the wildest wasteOf earth and air, of earth and air,The desart were a paradise,If thou wert there, if thou wert there.Or were I monarch o’ the globe,Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,The only jewel in my crownWad be my queen, wad be my queen.R. Burns.

I LOVE MY JEAN

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west,For there the bonie lassie lives,The lassie I lo’e best:There wild woods grow, and rivers rowAnd monie a hill between;But day and night my fancy’s flightIs ever wi’ my Jean.I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair;I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,I hear her charm the air:There’s not a bonie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There’s not a bonie bird that sings,But minds me o’ my Jean.R. Burns.

THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME

A SONGBy yon castle wa’, at the close of the day,I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey:And as he was singing, the tears fast down came —There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;We dare na weel say’t but we ken wha’s to blame —There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame —There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.Now life is a burden that bows me down,Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;But till my last moment my words are the same —There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.R. Burns.

THE BANKS O’ DOON

Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,How can ye blume sae fair!How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu’ o’ care.Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,That sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o’ the happy days,When my fause luve was true.Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,That sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o’ my fate.Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,To see the woodbine twine,And ilka bird sang o’ its love,And sae did I o’ mine.Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a roseFrae off its thorny tree;And my fause luver staw the rose,But left the thorn wi’ me.R. Burns.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP

As slow our ship her foamy trackAgainst the wind was cleaving,Her trembling pennant still looked backTo that dear isle ’twas leaving.So loth we part from all we love,From all the links that bind us;So turn our hearts, where’er we rove,To those we’ve left behind us!When, round the bowl, of vanished yearsWe talk, with joyous seeming, —With smiles, that might as well be tearsSo faint, so sad their beaming;While memory brings us back againEach early tie that twined us,Oh, sweet’s the cup that circles thenTo those we’ve left behind us!And when, in other climes, we meetSome isle or vale enchanting,Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,And nought but love is wanting;We think how great had been our bliss,If Heaven had but assigned usTo live and die in scenes like this,With some we’ve left behind us!As travellers oft look back, at eve,When eastward darkly going,To gaze upon that light they leaveStill faint behind them glowing, —So, when the close of pleasure’s dayTo gloom hath near consigned us,We turn to catch one fading rayOf joy that’s left behind us.T. Moore.

A RED, RED ROSE

O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,That’s newly sprung in June:O, my luve’s like the melodieThat’s sweetly play’d in tune.As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a’ the seas gang dry.Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o’ life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only luve,And fare thee weel awhile!And I will come again, my luve,Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

BANNOCKBURN

ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMYScots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;Welcome to your gory bed,Or to glorious victorie.Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;See the front o’ battle lower;See approach proud Edward’s power —Edward! chains and slaverie!Wha will be a traitor knave?Wha can fill a coward’s grave?Wha sae base as be a slave?Traitor! coward! turn and flee!Wha for Scotland’s King and lawFreedom’s sword will strongly draw,Free-man stand, or free-man fa’?Caledonian! on wi’ me!By oppression’s woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall – they shall be free!Lay the proud usurpers low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty’s in every blow!Forward! let us do, or die!R. Burns.

THE MINSTREL-BOY

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,In the ranks of death you’ll find him;His father’s sword he has girded on,And his wild harp slung behind him. —‘Land of song!’ said the warrior-bard,‘Though all the world betrays thee,One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,One faithful harp shall praise thee!’The Minstrel fell! – but the foeman’s chainCould not bring his proud soul under;The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,For he tore its chords asunder;And said, ‘No chains shall sully thee,Thou soul of love and bravery!Thy songs were made for the brave and free,They shall never sound in slavery!’T. Moore.

THE FAREWELL

It was a’ for our rightfu’ King,We left fair Scotland’s strand;It was a’ for our rightfu’ KingWe e’er saw Irish land,My dear;We e’er saw Irish land.Now a’ is done that men can do,And a’ is done in vain;My love and native land farewell,For I maun cross the main,My dear;For I maun cross the main.He turn’d him right and round aboutUpon the Irish shore;And gae his bridle-reins a shake,With adieu for evermore,My dear;With adieu for evermore.The sodger from the wars returns,The sailor frae the main;But I hae parted frae my love,Never to meet again,My dear;Never to meet again.When day is gane, and night is come,And a’ folk bound to sleep;I think on him that’s far awa’,The lee-lang night, and weep,My dear;The lee-lang night, and weep.R. Burns.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS

The harp that once through Tara’s hallsThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara’s wallsAs if that soul were fled.So sleeps the pride of former days,So glory’s thrill is o’er,And hearts, that once beat high for praise,Now feel that pulse no more.No more to chiefs and ladies brightThe harp of Tara swells:The chord alone, that breaks at night,Its tale of ruin tells.Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,The only throb she givesIs when some heart indignant breaks,To show that still she lives.T. Moore.

STANZAS

Could Love for everRun like a river,And Time’s endeavourBe tried in vain —No other pleasureWith this could measure;And like a treasureWe’d hug the chain.But since our sighingEnds not in dying,And, form’d for flying,Love plumes his wing;Then for this reasonLet’s love a season;But let that season be only Spring.When lovers partedFeel broken-hearted,And, all hopes thwartedExpect to die;A few years older,Ah! how much colderThey might behold herFor whom they sigh!Lord Byron.

A SEA DIRGE

Full fathom five thy father lies:Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell;Hark! now I hear them —Ding, Dong, Bell.W. Shakespeare.

ROSE AYLMER

Ah! what avails the sceptred race,Ah! what the form divine!What every virtue, every grace!Rose Aylmer, all were thine.Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyesMay weep, but never see,A night of memories and of sighsI consecrate to thee.W. S. Landor.

SONG

Who is Silvia? what is she,That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend herThat she might admired be.Is she kind, as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness.Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being help’d, inhabits there.Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling;To her let us garlands bring.W. Shakespeare.

LUCY ASHTON’S SONG

Look not thou on beauty’s charming, —Sit thou still when kings are arming, —Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, —Speak not when the people listens, —Stop thine ear against the singer, —From the red gold keep thy finger, —Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,Easy live and quiet die.Sir W. Scott.

EVENING

The sun upon the lake is low,The wild birds hush their song;The hills have evening’s deepest glow,Yet Leonard tarries long.Now all whom varied toil and careFrom home and love divide,In the calm sunset may repairEach to the loved one’s side.The noble dame on turret high,Who waits her gallant knight,Looks to the western beam to spyThe flash of armour bright.The village maid, with hand on browThe level ray to shade,Upon the footpath watches nowFor Colin’s darkening plaid.Now to their mates the wild swans row,By day they swam apart;And to the thicket wanders slowThe hind beside the hart.The woodlark at his partner’s sideTwitters his closing song —All meet whom day and care divide, —But Leonard tarries long!Sir W. Scott.

SONG

Orpheus with his lute made trees,And the mountain tops that freeze,Bow themselves when he did sing:To his music, plants and flowersEver sprung; as sun and showersThere had made a lasting spring.Everything that heard him play,Even the billows of the sea,Hung their heads, and then lay by.In sweet music is such art,Killing care and grief of heartFall asleep, or, hearing, die.W. Shakespeare.

THE TWA CORBIES

As I was walking all alane,I heard twa corbies making a mane;The tane unto the t’other say,‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’’In behint yon auld fail2 dyke,I wot there lies a new-slain knight;And naebody kens that he lies thereBut his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.’His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady’s ta’en another mate,So we may make our dinner sweet.’Ye’ll sit on his white hause bane,And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair,We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.‘Mony a one for him makes mane,But nane sall ken whae he is gane:O’er his white banes, when they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

TO ONE IN PARADISE

IThou wast all to me, love,For which my soul did pine —A green isle in the sea, love,A fountain and a shrine,All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,And all the flowers were mine.IIAh, dream, too bright to last!Ah, starry Hope! that didst ariseBut to be overcast!A voice from out the Future cries,‘On! on!’ – but o’er the Past(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering liesMute, motionless, aghast!IIIFor, alas! alas! with meThe light of Life is o’er!‘No more – no more – no more’ —(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,Or the stricken eagle soar!IVAnd all my days are trances,And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy dark eye glances,And where thy footstep gleams;In what ethereal dances,By what eternal streams.E. A. Poe.

HYMN TO DIANA

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair.Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia’s shining orb was madeHeav’n to clear, when day did close:Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd thy crystal shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak’st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.B. Jonson.

COUNTY GUY

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,The sun has left the lea,The orange flower perfumes the bower,The breeze is on the sea.The lark, his lay who trill’d all day,Sits hush’d his partner nigh;Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hourBut where is County Guy?The village maid steals through the shade,Her shepherd’s suit to hear;To beauty shy, by lattice high,Sings high-born Cavalier.The star of Love, all stars above,Now reigns o’er earth and sky;And high and low the influence know —But where is County Guy?Sir W. Scott.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Pibroch of Donuil,Wake thy wild voice anew,Summon Clan Conuil.Come away, come away,Hark to the summons!Come in your war-array,Gentles and commons.Come from deep glen, andFrom mountain so rocky,The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlochy.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one,Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one.Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterr’d,The bride at the altar;Leave the deer, leave the steer,Leave nets and barges:Come with your fighting gear,Broadswords and targes.Come as the winds come, whenForests are rended;Come as the waves come, whenNavies are stranded:Faster come, faster come,Faster and faster,Chief, vassal, page and groom,Tenant and master.Fast they come, fast they come;See how they gather!Wide waves the eagle plumeBlended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set!Pibroch of Donuil DhuKnell for the onset!Sir W. Scott.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen;Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown.For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!Lord Byron.

THE CAVALIER

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,My true love has mounted his steed, and awayOver hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down, —Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!He has doff’d the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,He has placed the steel cap o’er his long-flowing hair,From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down, —Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;His watchword is honour, his pay is renown, —God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and allThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;There’s Erin’s high Ormond, and Scotland’s Montrose!Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and BrownWith the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!Be his banner unconquer’d, resistless his spear,Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.Sir W. Scott.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER

Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific – and all his menLook’d at each other with a wild surmise —Silent, upon a peak in Darien.J. Keats.