THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS

THE SISTERS

THE DISCOVErer of the NORTH CAPE

ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NA-

Jonson. 171

Beddoes. 171

Poe. 172

Lowell. 173

Whittier. 175

Longfellow. 178

HOHENLINDEN

SONG

THE ROVER

Campbell. 202

Shakespeare. 203

. Scott. 203

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT

Co

RUNNA

Wolfe. 204

REQUIEM

Stevenson.

206

BARTHRAM'S DIRGE

THE YOUNG MAY MOON

ON A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB

Surtees. 226

Moore. 228

Gray. 229

NIGHT.

NOTES

INDEX OF AUTHORS

INDEX OF TITLES

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A BOOK OF FAMOUS VERSE

HUNTING SONG

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;

All the jolly chase is here

With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily mingle they,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size ;

We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay;
Waken, lords and ladies gay.

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay !
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;

Think of this and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay!

Sir Walter Scott.

THE SOLITARY REAPER

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers, in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands:

No sweeter voice was ever heard

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,

EPITAPH ON A HARE

Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd till I had my fill;
And as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth.

EPITAPH ON A HARE 1

HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo,

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, 1 Note 1.

3