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CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY.

THE DAY WAS DARK.

The day was dark, save when the beam Of noon through darkness broke:

In gloom I sat, as in a dream,

Beneath my orchard oak,

Lo, splendor, like a spirit, came!

A shadow like a tree!

While there I sat, and named her name

Who once sat there with me.

I started from the seat in fear,
I looked around in awe;
But saw no beauteous spirit near,

Though all that was I saw :

The seat, the tree, where oft in tears She mourned her hopes o'erthrown, Her joys cut off in early years,

Like gathered flowers half-blown.

Again the bud and breeze were met,
But Mary did not come;

And e'en the rose which she had set
Was fated ne'er to bloom!

The thrush proclaimed in accents sweet
That Winter's reign was o'er;
The bluebells thronged around my feet,
But Mary came no more.

I think, I feel-but when will she
Awake to thought again?

A voice of comfort answers me,

That God does naught in vain: He wastes nor flower, nor bud, nor leaf, Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave; And will he waste the hope which grief Hath planted in the grave?

A POET'S EPITAPH.

Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies,
The Poet of the poor:

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The tyrant, and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace—and the grave!

Sin met thy brother everywhere!

And is thy brother blamed?

From passion, danger, doubt, and care
He no exemption claimed.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, He feared to scorn or hate;

But, honoring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great,

He blessed the steward whose wealth makes The poor man's little more;

Yet loathed the haughty wretch that takes From plundered labor's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare-
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.

Henry Pickering.

AMERICAN.

Pickering (1781-1838) was a native of Newburgh, New York, where he was born in a house once the head-quarters of Washington. In 1801 his father, who was quartermaster-general of the army, and had been with Washington at the siege of Yorktown, returned to his native State, Massachusetts, and Henry engaged in mercantile pursuits at Salem. Unsuccessful in business, he removed to New York, and resided several years at Rondout and other places on the banks of the Hudson. An edition of "The Buckwheat Cake," a poem in blank verse, in the mock-heroic style, but of trifling merit, from his pen, was published in Boston in 1831.

THE HOUSE IN WHICH I WAS BORN. (ONCE THE HEAD-QUARTERS OF WASHINGTON.)

I.

Square, and rough-hewn, and solid is the mass, And ancient, if aught ancient here appear Beside yon rock-ribbed hills: but many a year Hath into dim oblivion swept, alas! Since, bright in arms, the worthies of the land Were here assembled. Let me reverent tread; For now, meseems, the spirits of the dead Are slowly gathering round, while I am fanned By gales unearthly. Ay, they hover nearPatriots and Heroes-the august and great— The founders of a young and mighty State, Whose grandeur who shall tell? With holy fear, While tears unbidden my dim eyes suffuse,

I mark them one by one, and, marvelling, muse.

II.

I gaze, but they have vanished! And the eye, Free now to roam from where I take my stand, Dwells on the hoary pile. Let no rash hand Attempt its desccration: for though I

REGINALD Heber.

Beneath the sod shall sleep, and memory's sigh
Be there forever stifled in this breast,-
Yet all who boast them of a land so blessed,
Whose pilgrim feet may some day hither hie,
Shall melt, alike, and kindle at the thought
That these rude walls have echoed to the sound
Of the great Patriot's voice! that even the ground
I tread was trodden too by him who fought
To make us free; and whose unsullied name,
Still, like the sun, illustrious shines the same.

Reginald Heber.

Heber (1783-1826), the son of a clergyman, was born at Malpas, in Cheshire. A precocious youth, he was admitted of Brasenose College, Oxford, in 1800. After taking a prize for Latin hexameters, he wrote the best of University prize poems, "Palestine." Previous to its recitation in the theatre he read it to Sir Walter Scott, then at Oxford, who remarked that in the poem the fact was not mentioned that in the construction of Solomon's Temple no tools were used. Young Heber retired for a few minutes to the corner of the room, and returned with these beautiful lines, which were added:

"No hammer fell, no ponderons axes rung;
Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.
Majestic silence!"

In 1807 Heber took orders in the Church, and in 1809 he married a daughter of the Dean of St. Asaph, and settled at Hodnet. Contrary to the advice of prudent friends, he accepted in 1823 the Bishopric of Calcutta. In April, 1826, a few days after his arrival at Trichinopoly, he died of an apoplectic attack while taking a bath. Heber was a man of exalted piety, earnest and faithful in the discharge of his clerical duties, and an industrious writer. There is a grace and finish in his poems, showing a high degree of literary culture as well as genuine poetical feeling.

FROM BISHOP HEBER'S JOURNAL. If thou wert by my side, my love! How fast would evening fail In green Bengala's palmy grove, Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love! wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam,
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er black Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor wild Malwah detain,

For sweet the bliss us both awaits, By youder western main.

363

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay,
As then shall meet in thee!

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

Wake not, O mother! sounds of lamentation! Weep not, O widow! weep not hopelessly! Strong is His arm, the Bringer of Salvation, Strong is the Word of God to succor thee!

Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him: Hide his pale features with the sable pall: Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him: Widowed and childless, she has lost her all!

Why pause the mourners? Who forbids our weeping?

Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed? "Set down the bier, he is not dead, but sleeping!

Young man, arise!"-He spake, and was obeyed!

Change then, O sad one! grief to exultation: Worship and fall before Messiah's knee. Strong was His arm, the Bringer of Salvation;

Strong was the Word of God to succor thee!

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REGINALD HEBER.-JANE TAYLOR.

365

They're lost, and gone-the moon is past, The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast; And fainter, fainter, fainter still

The march is rising o'er the hill.

Again, again, the pealing drum,

The clashing horn,-they come; they come !
Through rocky pass, o'er wooded steep,
In long and glittering files they sweep;
And nearer, nearer, yet more near,
Their softened chorus meets the ear;
Forth, forth, and meet them on their way;
The trampling hoofs brook no delay;
With thrilling fife and pealing drum,
And clashing horn, they come; they come !

MAY-DAY.

Queen of fresh flowers,

Whom vernal stars obey,
Bring thy warm showers,

Bring thy genial ray.

In nature's greenest livery dressed, Descend on earth's expectant breast, To earth and heaven a welcome guest, Thou merry month of May!

Mark! how we meet thee

At dawn of dewy day!
Hark! how we greet thee

With our roundelay!

While all the goodly things that be
In earth, and air, and ample sea,
Are waking up to welcome thee,
Thou merry month of May!

Flocks on the mountains,

And birds upon the spray, Tree, turf, and fountains

All hold holiday;

And love, the life of living things,

Love waves his torch and claps his wings,
And loud and wide thy praises sings,
Thou merry month of May.

Jane Taylor.

Jane Taylor (1783-1824) was a native of London, but brought up chiefly at Larenham, in Suffolk. Her father, Isaac Taylor (1759-1829), was an engraver, and ultimately pastor of an Independent Congregation at Ongar, in Essex, and a voluminous author. Jane's mother (née Ann

Martin) also wrote books. Jointly with her sister Ann (1782-1866), Jane produced "Original Poems for Infant Minds." The sisters also wrote "Hymns for Infant Minds," which were very popular. Their two little poems, "My Mother," and "Twinkle, twinkle, little star," will not readily become obsolete in the nursery. Jane was the author of "Display," a novel (1815), of "Essays in Rhyme" (1816), and “Contributions of Q Q." She had a brother, Isaac Taylor (1787-1865), who wrote "Physical Theory of Another Life," and other much esteemed works.

TEACHING FROM THE STARS. Stars, that on your wondrous way Travel through the evening sky, Is there nothing you can say

To such a little child as I? Tell me, for I long to know, Who has made you sparkle so?

Yes, methinks I hear you say,
"Child of mortal race attend;
While we run our wondrous way,
Listen; we would be your friend;
Teaching you that name divine,
By whose mighty word we shine.

"Child, as truly as we roll

Through the dark and distant sky, You have an immortal soul,

Born to live when we shall die. Suns and planets pass away: Spirits never can decay.

"When some thousand years at most,
All their little time have spent,
One by one our sparkling host,
Shall forsake the firmament:
We shall from our glory fall;
You must live beyond us all.

"Yes, and God, who bade us roll,

God, who hung us in the sky, Stoops to watch an infant's soul With a condescending eye; And esteems it dearer far, More in value than a star!

"Oh, then, while your breath is given,
Let it rise in fervent prayer;
And beseech the God of heaven
To receive your spirit there,
Like a living star to blaze,
Ever to your Saviour's praise."

John Kenyon.

The son of a wealthy English West Indian merchant, Kenyon (1783-1856), a native of Jamaica, inherited a large fortune. He cultivated the society of literary men; and among his associates were Byron, Wordsworth, Procter, Browning, and other eminent poets. Dying, he bestowed more than £100,000 in legacies to his friends. He wrote "A Rhymed Plea for Tolerance" (1833); "Poems, for the most part Occasional" (1838); and "A Day at Tivoli, with other Poems" (1849).

CHAMPAGNE ROSE.

Lily on liquid roses floating

So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne ;Fain would I join such pleasant boating, And prove that ruby main,

And float away on wine!

Those seas are dangerous, graybeards swear,—
Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim;
And true it is they drown old Care-
But what care we for him,
So we but float on wine!

And true it is they cross in pain Who sober cross the Stygian ferry; But only make our Styx champagne, And we shall cross quite merry, Floating away in wine!

Old Charon's self shall make him mellow,
Then gayly row his boat from shore;
While we, and every jovial fellow,
Hear unconcerned the oar

That dips itself in wine!

Allan Cunningham.

Poet, novelist, and miscellaneous writer, Cunningham (1784-1842) was born of humble parentage in Dumfriesshire, Scotland. He began life as a stone-mason: in 1810 he repaired to London, got an appointment of trust in the studio of the sculptor Chantrey, and there settled for life. He had early shown a taste for literature, and written for the magazines of the day. His taste and attainments in the fine arts were remarkable. His warm heart, his upright, independent character, attracted the affectionate esteem of all who enjoyed his acquaintance. He left four sons-Joseph D., Alexander, Peter, and Francis-all of whom have won distinction in literature. Cunningham was the author of "Paul Jones," a successful romance (1826); and from 1829 to 1833 he produced

for "Murray's Family Library" his most esteemed prose work, "The Lives of the most eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects," in six volumes.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallaut mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

Oh for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud; And hark, the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud! The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing freeWhile the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME.

It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on

the tree,

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie
It's hame, and its hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There's naught now frae ruin my country can save, But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave,

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