69.-A DREAM. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. [Mr. Allingham, one of our sweetest and most successful poets, is a native of Ireland, and is a resident of Ballyshannon, his native town. His "Day and Night Songs" were published in 1854, and his "Music Master, and other Poems," 1855.] I HEARD the dogs howl in the moonlight night, Going one by one and two by two. On they pass'd, and on they pass'd; Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak too; A long, long crowd-where each seem'd lonely, How long since I saw that fair pale face! On, on, a moving bridge they made Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, Young and old, women and men; Many long-forgot, but remember'd then. And first there came a bitter laughter; 245 70.-TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. GERALD MASSEY. [Mr. Massey was born at Tring, 1828, his father being a canal boatman, earning the humble wages of ten shillings a week. The youthful Gerald was employed in a silk-mill, and afterwards became a straw-plaiter. At the age of fifteen he had read but few books, and came to London as an errand boy. Here he read all the books that came in his way, and before he was eighteen he had taken to making verses. In 1853 he published his "Babe Christabel, and other Lyrical Poems," and the critics and reading public hailed him as a new poet. Mr. Massey is now identified with the daily press, and holds an acknowledged position.] HIGH hopes that burn'd like stars sublime, Go down i' the heavens of freedom; We bitterliest need 'em! But never sit we down and say There's nothing left but sorrow; Through all the long, long night of years And earth is wet with blood and tears: The few shall not for ever sway— The powers of hell are strong to-day, Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes With smiling futures glisten! For lo! our day bursts up the skies And ripens with her sorrow; Keep heart! who bear the Cross to-day, O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire To many a heaven of desire And though age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow- Build up heroic lives, and all Triumph and toil are twins; and ay Brings victory to-morrow! 71.-THE LUTIST AND THE NIGHTINGALE. JOHN FORD. [John Ford was a contemporary dramatist with Massinger, and displayed the same taste and feeling. He was born in 1586, of a good Devonshire family, and supported himself by the profession of the law, not relying wholly on dramatic literature for a living. His first plays were produced in partnership with Webster, Decker, and Rowley-the first, entirely his own, "The Lover's Melancholy," in 1628, and the others, "Brother and Sister," "The Broken Heart," "Love's Sacrifice," "Perkin Warbeck," "Fancies, Chaste and Noble," and "The Lady's Trial," at intervals down to 1639, about which time he is supposed to have died suddenly.] PASSING from Italy to Greece, the tales To Thessaly I came, and living private, Without acquaintance of more sweet companions This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge; and for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang him down. Upon his quaking instrument than she, Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, nor notes, Had busied many hours to perfect practice. To end the controversy, in a rapture Upon his instrument he played so swiftly, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method The bird (ordain'd to be Music's first martyr) strove to imitate These several sounds; which when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute, And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness To weep a funeral elegy of tears. He look'd upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes; then sigh'd and cry'd "Alas! poor creature, I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it. Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, 72.-THE SANDS OF DEE. REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY. [See page 217.] "Он, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee." The western wind was wild and dark with foam, The western tide crept up along the sand, And round and round the sand As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— A drowned maiden's hair, Was never salmon yet that shone so fair They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea, But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee. (By permission of Messrs. Macmillan.) |