Echoes of Life: Or, Beautiful Gems of Poetry & Song. A Choice Collection of ...

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots:
I slide by hazel covers;

I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;

I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows;

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;

I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

--Alfred Tennyson.

HAT beauties does Flora disclose!

WHA

Tweedside.

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed,

Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,

Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers of the field,
Not Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring. We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feathered folks sing.

How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?

Do they never carelessly stray,

While happily she lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

'Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her may compare:
Love's graces around her do dwell;

She's fairest where thousands are fair
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray,
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed;
Shall I seek them on smooth-winding Tay
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?

-William Crawford.

The Planting of the Apple Tree.

OME, let us plant the apple tree,
Cleave the tough green sward with the
spade;

Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mold with kindly care,

And press it o'er them tenderly,

As round the sleeping infant's feet
We softly fold the cradle-sheet;
So plant we the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;

Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;

We plant, upon the sunny lea,

A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer's shower.
When we plant the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard row he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,

While children come with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple tree.

And when, above this apple tree,
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth,

And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree
Winds and our flag of stripe and star

Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood's careless day
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the shade of the apple tree.

Each year shall give this apple tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple tree.

And time shall waste this apple tree!
O, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this apple tree?

"Who planted this old apple tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:
"A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times;
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes
On planting the apple tree."

-William Cullen Bryant.

The Mountains of Switzerland.

THE stranger wandering in the Switzer's land,

Before its awful mountain-tops afraidWho yet, with patient toil, has gained his stand On the bare summit where all life is stayedSees far, far down beneath his blood-dimmed eyes, Another country, golden to the shore, Where a new passion and new hopes arise, Where southern blooms unfold forevermore.

And I, lone sitting by the twilight blaze, Think of another wanderer in the snows, And on more perilous mountain-tops I gaze Than ever frowned above the vine and rose.

Yet courage, soul! nor hold thy strength in vain, In hope o'ercome the steeps God set for thee, For past the Alpine summits of great pain

Lieth thine Italy.

-Rose Terry Cooke.

And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that crowning King, ladies, lovers, all look on, the occasion is divine; show, I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale.

[Of Robin Hood, the famous outlaw of Sherwood Forest, and his merry men, there are many ballads; but the limits of this volume forbid our giving more than a single selection. Various periods, ranging from the time of Richard I to the end of the reign of Edward II., have been assigned as the age in which Robin Hood lived He is usually described as a yeoman, abiding in Sherwood Forest, in Nottinghamshire. His most noted followers, generally mentioned in the ballads, are Little John, Friar Tuck, his chaplain, and his maid Marian. Nearly all the ballads extol his courage, his generosity, his humanity, and his skill as an archer. He robbed the rich only, who could afford to lose, and gave freely to the poor. He protected the needy, was a champion of the fair sex, and took great delight in plundering prelates. The following ballad exhibits the outlaw in one of his most attractive aspects-affording assistance to a distressed lover.]

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

"This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood,

They shall be three times asked in the church, As the law is of our land."

"That you do seem to hear;

For since we are come into the church,

The bride shall choose her own dear."

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,
And blew blasts two and three;
When four-and-twenty yeomen bold
Came leaping over the lea.

And when they came into the churchyard,

Marching all in a row,

The very first man was Allen a-Dale,
To give bold Robin his bow.

"This is thy true-love," Robin he said,
"Young Allen, as I hear say;

And you shall be married at this same time, Before we depart away."

"That shall not be," the bishop, he cried, "For thy word shall not stand;

Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat,

And put it upon Little John;

'By the faith of my body," then Robin said, "This cloth doth make thee a man."

When Little John went into the quire,
The people began to laugh;

He asked them seven times in the church
Lest three times should not be enough.
"Who gives me this maid!" said Little John,
Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I;
And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale,
Full dearly he shall her buy."

And then having ended this merry wedding,
The bride looked like a queen;

And so they returned to the merry greenwood, Amongst the leaves so green.

« Prejšnja Naprej »

Knjige