Page images
PDF
EPUB

THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA.

See the white moon shines on high!
Whiter is my true-love's shroud :
Whiter than the morning sky,

Whiter than the evening cloud.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the gairish flowers be laid;

Nor one holy saint to save

All the sorrows of a maid.

With my hands I'll bind the briers,
Round his holy corse to gre;
Elf and fairy, light your fires!
Here my body still shall be.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn!
Drain my heart's blood all away!

Life and all its good I scorn:

Dance by night, or feast by day!

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes,

Bear me to your deadly tide!

I die! I come! My true-love waits!

[blocks in formation]

I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE.

I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,

In fair Damascus fashioned well;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not; but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done;
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,

Be thou whene'er it sees the sun :
For country's claim, at Honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,

At Mercy's voice to bid it fall,

I give my soldier-boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,

Are gone, with all their flame and noise;
And still the gleaming sword remains:
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember, by these heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.

WILLIAM MAGINN.

THE MAHOGANY TREE.

CHRISTMAS is here:

Winds whistle shrill,

Icy and chill.

Little care we;
Little we fear

Weather without,

Sheltered about

The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs

Birds of rare plume

Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we.
Here we carouse,
Singing like them,

Perched round the stem

Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit,

Laughter and wit

Flashing so free.

THE MAHOGANY TREE.

Life is but short;
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,

Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew
Happy as this ;

Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,

Gentle and just,

Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be !
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals;
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup:
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid

In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;

Let us forget,

Round the old tree.

THE GRACE OF SIMPLICITY

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,

Duns and their bills,

Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn,

Blue-devil sprite!

Leave us to-night,

Round the old tree!

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE GRACE OF SIMPLICITY.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast,
Still to be powdered, still perfumed !
Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

BEN JONSON.

« PreviousContinue »