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Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
Close in the covert of the leaves there stood
string A cap'ring cheerfulness; and made them sing To their own dance; now negligently rash He throws his arm, and with a long drawn dash Blends all together; then distinctly trips From this to that; then quick returning skips And snatches this again, and pauses there. She measures every measure, everywhere Meets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out, Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, Through the sleek passage of her open throat, A clear unwrinkled song: then doth she point it With tender accents, and severely joint it By short diminutives, that being rear'd In controverting warbles evenly shared, With her sweet self she wrangles. He amazed That from so small a channel should be raised The torrent of a voice, whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety, Strains higher yet; that tickled with rare art The tattling strings (each breathing in his part) Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base In surly groans disdains the treble's grace; The high-perch'd treble chirps at this, and chides, Until his finger (Moderator) hides And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, Hoarse, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their hands: this lesson too
She gives him back; her supple breast thrills out
Shame now and anger mixed a double stain
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone;
Or to thyself, sing thine own obsequy:
This done, he lists what she would say to this, And she, (although her breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,) Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul!) she tries To measure all those wild diversities Of chatı'ring strings, by the small size of one
AN EPITAPH UPON MR. ASHTON, A
CONFORMABLE CITIZEN. The modest front of this small floor, Believe me, Reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can; Here lies a truly honest man. One whose conscience was a thing, That troubled neither Church nor King. One of those few that in this town, Honor all Preachers, hear their own. Sermons he heard, yet not so many As left no time to practice any. He heard them rev'rently, and then His practice preach'd them o'er again. His Parlor-Sermons rather were Those to the eye, than to the ear. His prayers took their price and strength, Not from the loudness, nor the length. He was a Protestant at home, Not only in despite of Rome. He loved his Father; yet his zeal Tore not off his Mother's veil. To th' Church he did allow her dress, True Beauty, to true Holiness. Peace, which he loved in life, did lend Her hand to bring him to his end. When Age and Death call'd for the score No surfeits were to reckon for. Death tore not therefore – but sans strife Gently untwined his thread of life. What remains then, but that thou Write these lines, Reader, in thy brow, And by his fair example's light, Burn in thy imitation bright. So while these lines can but bequeath A life perhaps unto his death; His better Epitaph shall be, His life still kept alive in thee.
TWO WENT UP INTO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY.
Two went to pray! O, rather say,
He saw how, in that blest Day-bearing Night,
The Heaven-rebuked shades made haste away; How bright a dawn of angels with new light
Amazed the midnight world, and made a Day Of which the Morning knew not. Mad with spite He mark'd how the poor shepherds ran to pay
Their simple tribute to the Babe, Whose birth
- Satan. CRUELTY.
UPON THE SEPULCHRE OF OUR LORD.
- Divine Epigrams.
BUT NOW THEY HAVE SEEN AND HATED.
Fourth of the cursèd knot of hags is she,
Or rather all the other three in one; Hell's shop of slaughter she does oversee,
And still assist the execution. But chiefly there does she delight to be, Where Hell's capacious cauldron is set on: And while the black souls boil in their own
gore, To hold them down, and look that none seethe o'er.
- Sospetto d' Herode.
Now had the Night's companion from her den,
Where all the busy day she close doth lie,
Day's sweat; and by a gentle tyranny
Of Sorrow, with a soft and downy hand,
Seen ? and yet hated Thee ? they did not see,
To The Morning:
- In Praise of Lessius's Rule of Health.
O cheeks! Beds of chaste loves, By your own showers seasonably dashed. Eyes! Nests of milky doves,
In your own wells decently washed. O wit of Love! that thus could place Fountain and garden in one face.
- St. Mary Magdalene, or The Weeper.
UPON FORD'S TWO TRAGEDIES, “Love's SACRIFICE
AND “THE BROKEN HEART." Thou cheat'st us, Ford; mak'st one seem two by art. What is Love's Sacrifice but The Broken Heart?
Sweet Hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy! by thee
We are not where nor what we be, But what and where we would be. Thus art thou Our absent presence, and our future now. Faith's sister! nurse of fair desire! Fear's antidote! a wise and well-stay'd fire! Temper 'twixt chill Despair, and torrid Joy! Queen regent in young Love's minority!
GIVE TO CÆSAR --AND TO GOD.
A SNOWFLAKE IN MAY.
HE year 1860 is notable as the birth-year of at
I saw a snowflake in the air
When smiling May had decked the year, And then 't was gone, I knew not where,I saw a snowflake in the air, And thought perchance an angel's prayer
Had fallen from some starry sphere; I saw a snowflake in the air
When smiling May had decked the year.
all of whom are now familiarly known to readers of the verse of our day, and who gained the public ear at not far from the same time: Charles G. D. Roberts, Dempster Sherman and Clinton Scollard. Clinton Scollard, the youngest of the trio by a few months was born in the village of Clinton, Oneida County, New York, September 18, 1860. His father, Dr. James J. Scollard, has been for many years a physician of note in that locality and still in middle life remains in the active practice of his profession besides being connected with many of the leading business interests in that region. Clinton, his only son, was educated at private schools in his native town and after passing four years successfully at Hamilton College in the same place, was graduated from that institution in 1881. Like most boys with literary leanings, he wrote more or less indifferent verse and prose during his later years at school and in his college course, His father seems hardly to have approved of these early efforts, but his mother encouraged him by her intelligent sympathy, criticising freely and praising where praise could fairly be given. Little of this first work has been preserved. A certain ease of rhyming was its most noteworthy characteristic as it is a pronounced feature of his later work.
For a year or two after leaving college Mr. Scollard was engaged as a teacher of elocution in a school in Brooklyn, New York, and then, his health becoming uncertain, he spent some time in travel in California and Florida. During these few years he wrote much in verse, and in December, 1884, published a collection of a number of his poems with the title, “ Pictures in Song." This book could not be called a strong one, but showed promise and was pleasantly noticed by the reviewers.
In October, 1884. Mr. Scollard removed to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and was for two years a graduate student at Harvard University, devoting his attention while there mainly to purely literary courses of study. During these years he wrote largely and his verse appeared in periodical literature with increasing frequency. “With Reed and Lyre," his second book, was published in September, 1886, and met with favorable attention in many quarters. The latter half of 1886 was spent by Mr. Scollard in European travel, and returning in January, 1887, he conducted classes in literature in Boston and Cambridge. A second trip to Europe was made by him in July of the same year. In September, 1888, he was appointed assistant professor of rhetoric and literature at Hamilton Col. lege, a position he now holds. "Old and New World Lyrics,” his third volume, appeared in November. 1888.
O. F. A.
A TWILIGHT PIECE. I STRAYED from the bower of the roses as the dusk
of the day drew on, From the purple palm-tree closes where the crim.
son cactus shone; Along the sycamore alley and up through the town
I strode, Nor paused where the gay groups dally at curves
of the wide white road. And I came to a pathway climbing through an
olive orchard gray, As the last faint bells were chiming in a chapel far
away. Only the stir of the lizard in the long sparse grass
I heard, And the wind, like an unseen wizard, with its
mystical whispered word. But at last I broke from the glooming of boughs,
and the darkling place, And beheld tall warders looming o'er a wide and
lonely space; Old cypress trees intoning a chant that was weird
and low, And as sad as the ghostly moaning from the lips
of the Long-ago. Here many a time at the margin of day, ere the
bats grew brave, Had I seen the low sun sink large in the dip of
the western wave; Seen the hues of the magical painter flush half of
the sky's broad zone, And then grow fainter and fainter till the flowers
of the night were blown, Enwrapt by the drowsy quiet, I sank on the turf,
and long I yearned for the rhythmic riot of the night-bird's
soaring song; A song that should pulse and thrill me, and tides
of the heart unbar, A song that should surge and fill me with thoughts
of a clime afar; For I felt the passionate sadness of the mourner
who may not weep,
I listened long to catch a bird-note falling
From out the sombre spaces of the sky, And only heard a grim rook hoarsely calling
As toward the woodland he went wheeling by; The sere marsh rushes seemed to breathe an echo
to my sigh.
When last I strayed this self-same pathway over
How every breeze was palpitant with song! The grass I trod was white with foamy clover,
And bees went darting by, a burdened throng; Now all was drear and desolate the whole wide
Where is the promise of the re-awaking ?
I thought, as one that o'er dead joyance grieves Some lingering springtide symbol sweetly making
A link between the reaped and unsown sheaves; When lo, a violet still in bloom amid the withered
And turned to the bird's wild gladness as the
weary turn toward sleep. Then it came, ah! it came with a rushing and
ripple of notes that poured Like a mountain rillet gushing from a rock-fount,
pebble-foored; And I soared with the song's swift soaring, and I
fied with the song's swift flow, From that land of the sun's adoring to a land of
storm and snow; From the home of the rose and laurel, from the
olive slopes and the vines, To hills where the mad winds quarrel in the supple
tops of pines. And I said, “enough of the languor, enough of
the dreamful ease, With never a sound of anger from the slumberous
sapphire seas! Give me the din of the battle of turbulent life once
more,The clangor, the stress, the rattle, on the new
world's strenuous shore; The hearts I love and that love me, and the frank,
free, trustful eyes, And the blue of the skies above me, the blue of my
own dear skies!" A moment the strains waxed stronger, then died;
no, it might not be; I knew I must linger longer by the strange sweet
southern sea; Linger and con from the stories of those who had
left life's ways, Linger and glean from the glories of the hallowed
and haloed days. But a moment more I tarried till the sovran moon
rose up, And the land and the heaven were married by the
wine from its gold-bright cup; Then I swiftly downward wended, and was glad
once more to be Where the laughter clear ascended by the shore of
the siren sea. Ah! the lone heart, backward turning, though fair
be the skies that dome, Must sometimes feel a yearning for the happy hills
An eddying speck the swallow flies,
The morn is full of fragrant breath, Yet, dark and dank beneath, there lies
A charnel-house of death.
Spring comes, and straightway at her smiles
The wide Campagna bursts in bloom; But naught again to life beguiles
The grave's black hecatomb.
And yet the fairest flowers have birth
In mould and darkness and decay; And here the faith that Angs the earth
Flowered into endless day.
MOONRISE AT MONTEREY.
All through the sultry evening hours
The fluctuant tide's soft swell was heard,
And to the cadence sang a bird Amid the bright acacia flowers.
A bat zigzagged across the night,
And in the dark the spiders spun
Their webs, that would, at rise of sun, Be little silvery paths of light.
IN LATE NOVEMBER.
The sun was hidden and the air was chill;
Along the windy summit of the hill;
Clear notes of song dropped down the air,
Well-rounded, perfect pearls of sound;
A star sprang eastward, and was drowned In outer ether, none knew where.