DEJECTION-AN ODE. Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms our ear or sight All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light. VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress; And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence fancy made me dreams of happi ness. For hope grew round me like the twining vine; And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth, Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth; But oh! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, My shaping spirit of imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, But to be still and patient, all I can; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural manThis was my sole resource, my only plan ; Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony, by torture lengthened out, 687 Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad lutanist! who, in this month of showers, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among! Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about? 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold. But hark! there is a pause or deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud; A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay: 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild Not far from home, but she hath lost her way; And now moans low in bitter grief and fear And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. VIII. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep; Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! Visit her, gentle sleep, with wings of heal ing! And may this storm be but a mountainbirth; That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest May all the stars hang bright above her without! Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, dwelling, Silent as though they watched the sleeping earth! With light heart may she rise, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice! To her may all things live, from pole to poleTheir life the eddying of her living soul! O simple spirit, guided from above! Dear lady! friend devoutest of my choice! Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. SAMUEL TAYLor Coleridge. SIR MARMADUKE. SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knightGood man! old man! He's painted standing bolt upright, With his hose rolled over his knee; His periwig 's as white as chalk, And on his fist he holds a hawk; And he looks like the head Of an ancient family. His dining-room was long and wide— Good man! old man! His spaniels lay by the fireside; And in other parts, d'ye see, Cross-bows, tobacco pipes, old hats, A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats; And he looked like the head Of an ancient family. And why I'm so plump the reason I tellWho leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar ! After supper of heaven I dream, And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar JOHN O'KEEFS THE AGE OF WISDOM. Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, Wait till you come to forty year. Curly gold locks cover foolish brains; Billing and cooing is all your cheer— He never turned the poor from the gate- Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, THE LAST LEAF. Gillian's dead! God rest her bier How I loved her twenty years syne! Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. TO PERILLA. А, my Рerilla! dost thou grieve to see come, And haste away to mine eternal home; The gods' protection, but the night before; Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. ROBERT HERRICK. THE ONE GRAY HAIR. THE wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies, And love to hear them told; Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. I never sat among The choir of wisdom's song, But pretty lies loved I As much as any king When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by. Alas! and I have not The pleasant hour forgot, When one pert lady said"O, Landor! I am quite Bewildered with affright; 689 I see (sit quiet now!) a white hair on you! head!" Another, more benign, Drew out that hair of mine, And in her own dark hair Fair as she was, she never was so fair. WALTER SAvage LandoR THE LAST LEAF. I SAW him once before, The pavement-stones resound They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn; And he shakes his feeble head. That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said— Poor old lady! she is dead Long ago— That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff; And a crook is in his back, I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here. But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches-and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be Let them smile, as I do now, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. MEMORY. l'ue mother of the muses, we are taught, Is memory; she has left me; they remain, And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing About the summer days, my loves of old. "Alas! alas!" is all I can reply. Memory has left with me that name alone, Harmonious name, which other bards may sing, But her bright image in my darkest hour Comes back, in vain comes back, called or uncalled. Forgotten are the names of visitors While streams the evening sunshine on quie wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges tur for me. The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when th heat of day is o'er. Behold the portals open, and o'er the thresh old, now, There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow; His count of years is full, his allotted task wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day, And as I look down and listen the sadness wears away. Again the hinges turn, and a youth, depart ing, throws Whose genial converse and glad countenance A look of longing backward, and sorrowfu' Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye; ly goes; To these, when I have written, and besought A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from Remembrance of me, the word "Dear" alone Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain. A blessing wert thou, O oblivion, her hair, Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and fair. THE END OF THE PLAY. 691 Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays! we gaze! THE END OF THE PLAY. Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the THE play is done-the curtain drops, restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies, we know not where! I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; But still the sun shines round me; the evening bird sings on, Slow falling to the prompter's bell; And looks around, to say farewell. And, when he 's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, And I again am soothed, and, beside the an- One word, ere yet the evening ends- and wait. Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out, The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. As fits the merry Christmas time; Oh frail, frail tree of life, that upon the green- Good-night!-I'd say the griefs, the joye, Just hinted in this mimic page, sward strows Its fair young buds unopened, with every The triumphs and defeats of boys, wind that blows! So come from every region, so enter, side by I'd say your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen side, men of pride, Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way. I'd At forty-five played o'er again. say we suffer and we strive And some approach the threshold whose looks And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, I'd say how fate may change and shift-- The race not always to the swift; The kind cast pitilessly down. Blessed be He who took and gave! |