How blithe upon the breezy cliffs At sunny morn I've stood, That danced along the flood! Or when the western wave grew bright With daylight's parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light Which dreaming poets sing That Eden where th' immortal brave Dwell in a land serene Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen; Ah dream, too full of saddening truth! Are like the hopes I built in youth- For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that; Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' thatWhen man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. ROBERT BURNE. THOMAS Moore. HONEST POVERTY. Is there for honest poverty Our toils obscure, and a' that; Their tinsel show, and a' that; You see yon birkie ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that-- His riband, star, and a' that; A princo can mak a belted knight, "CONTEMPLATE ALL THIS WORK." CONTEMPLATE all this work of time, The giant laboring in his youth; But trust that those we call the dead And grew to seeming random forms, Who throve and branched from clime to clime And crowned with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not an idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipped in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the shocks of doom Arise and fly To shape and use. The reeling faun, the sensual feast! And let the ape and tiger die! ALFRED TENNYSON IS IT COME? IF THAT WERE TRUE. Is it come? they said, on the banks of the Nile, Who looked for the world's long-promised day, And saw but the strife of Egypt's toil, With the desert's sand and the granite gray. From the pyramid, temple, and treasured dead, We vainly ask for her wisdom's plan; They tell us of the tyrant's dread Yet there was hope when that day began. The Chaldee came, with his starry lore, And built up Babylon's crown and creed; And bricks were stamped on the Tigris shore With signs which our sages scarce can read. From Ninus' temple, and Nimrod's tower, The rule of the old east's empire spread Unreasoning faith and unquestioned power— But still, Is it come? the watcher said. The light of the Persian's worshipped flame, The ancient bondage its splendor threw ; And once, on the west a sunrise came, When Greece to her freedom's trust was true; With dreams to the utmost ages dear, The Romans conquered, and revelled too, As, wave after wave, the Goth came on. The gown was learning, the sword was law; The people served in the oxen's stead; But ever some gleam the watcher saw, And evermore, Is it come? they said. Poet and seer that question caught, Above the din of life's fears and frets; It marched with letters, it toiled with thought, Through schools and creeds which the earth forgets. And statesmen trifle, and priests deceive, And traders barter our world awayYet hearts to that golden promise cleave, And still, at times, Is it come? they say. 708 The days of the nations bear no trace FRANCES BROWN. IF THAT WERE TRUE! T is long ago,—we have toiled and traded, Some spake of homes in the greenwood hid den, Where age was fearless and youth was freeWhere none at life's board seemed guests unbidden, But men had years like the forest tree: Some told us of a stainless standard- guard, And not to be stayed by steel or gold. Our hope grew strong as the giant-slayer. Some said to our silent souls, What fear ye? And yet since the fairy time hath perished, Be patient! oh, be patient! Put your ear against the earth; Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has birth How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way, Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up in the day. Be patient! oh, be patient! The germs of mighty thought Must have their silent undergrowth, must underground be wrought; But as sure as there's a power that makes the grass appear, Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade-time shall be here. Be patient! oh, be patient!-go and watch the wheat ears grow So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe Day after day, day after day, till the ear is From whom the seed, there scattered, fell. A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat I leave it behind with the games of youth." The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, I yielded myself to the perfect whole. RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE LOST CHURCH. IN yonder dim and pathless wood As from some minster's lofty tower. A pathway to the minster's tower! Late, wandering in that ancient wood, I heard, far off, that solemn bell: Still, heavenward as my spirit soared, Wilder and sweeter rang the knell. While thus in holy musings wrapt, My mind from outward sense withdrawn, Some power had caught me from the earth, And far into the heavens upborne. Methought a hundred years had passed In mystic visions as I lay--When suddenly the parting clouds Seemed opening wide, and far away. No midday sun its glory shed, The stars were shrouded from my sight; And lo! majestic o'er my head, A minster shone in solemn light. High through the lurid heavens it seemed Aloft on cloudy wings to rise, Till all its pointed turrets gleamed, Far flaming, through the vaulted skies! The bell with full resounding peal Dashed by the surging ocean's foam, A soft light through the oriel streamed Pale sculptures of the sainted dead Low at the altar's foot I knelt, Transfixed with awe, and dumb with dresi For, blazoned on the vaulted roof, Were heaven's fiercest glories spread. Yet when I raised my eyes once more, The vaulted roof itself was goneWide open was heaven's lofty door, And every cloudy veil withdrawn! What visions burst upon my soul, What joys unutterable there In waves on waves for ever roll Like music through the pulseless airThese never mortal tongue may tell : Let him who fain would prove their powe Pause when he hears that solemn knell Float on the breeze at twilight hour. LUDWIG UHLAND. (Germa Paraphrase of SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. THE GARDEN OF LOVE. I WENT to the garden of love, And saw what I never had seen; A chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gate of this chapel was shut, And I saw it was filled with graves, And binding with briars my joys and de sires. WILLIAM BLAKE |