Billeder på siden

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies,
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!

Earth claims not these again!

Yet more,

the depths have more! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! – Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play!

Man yields them to decay!

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast !
They hear not now the booming waters roar;
The battle-thunders will not break their rest!
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!

Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown –

But all is not thine own!

To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow thy tides o’er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks and beauty's flowery crown:
Yet must thou hear a voice Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee! –
Restore the dead, thou Sea!



Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone? He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne; And it's oh! in my heart how I wish him safe at home.

Oh where! and oh where! does your Highland laddie dwell?
He dwells in merry Scotland at the sign of the Bluebell;
And it's oh! in my heart that I love my laddie well.

What clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad? His bonnet's ot the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; And it's oh! in my heart that I love my Highland lad.

Suppose, oh suppose, that your Highland lad should die? The bagpipes shall play over him, I'll lay me down and cry; And it's oh! in my heart that I wish he may not die!

OLD Song,


At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There in the night, where none can spy ,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

There are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes ;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So when my nurse comes in for me
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.



So late! and all the passers gone :

So cold the snowy street!
The little flower-girl wanders lone,

With bare and weary feet.
So tired! the winds are loud and bleak;

Down drops her little head;
She sleeps ; the tears are on her cheeks

Her violets are dead.

Soft, soft! the Christmas morn grows bright;

The winds no more are wild :
There comes, all clad in golden light,

A little angel-child.
He stops, and marks the cold, cold place;

He sees the down-dropt head,
The poor, thin hands, the tear-stained face

Her violets are dead.

Upon her head and eyelids wet

His hands he gently laid;
And touched each withered violet,

And blessed the little maid;
Then passed away: the glad bells broke

Upon the frosty air;
The little flower-girl turned and woke
Her flowers are fresh and fair!



Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes ?
On what wings dared he aspire ?
What the hand dared seize the fire ?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain,
Knit thy strength and forged thy brain ?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dared thy deadly terrors clasp ?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see ?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?


Three fishers went sailing away to the West,

Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,

And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands

For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

Chas. KingslEY.

19. HOW'S MY BOY ?

Ho, sailor of the sea !
How's my boy

my boy?
“What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he ?”
My boy John
He that went to sea
What care I for the ship, sailor?

My boy's my boy to me.
HOEKZEMA, Poetry. 4th Ed.


« ForrigeFortsæt »