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marsy, and if told
Marm Man wants but little hora bolaw:
"Nor counts that little long
But this so, in the gang.
Would mustermansy, a fome:
I still should long for
TO THE IDOL OF MY EYB AND DELIGHT OF MY HEART,
Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng,
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway ; To breathe delight Anne hath a way. When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, And merit to distress betray, To soothe the heart Anne hath a way. She hath a way to chase despair, To heal all grief, to cure all care, Turn foulest night to fairest day. Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway ;
Talk not of gems, the orient list,
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway ; To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. But were it to my fancy given To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven; For though a mortal made of clay, Angels must love Anne Hathaway ; She hath a way so to control, To rapture, the imprisoned soul,
And sweetest heaven on earth display,
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway ;
Attributed to SHAKESPEARE.
UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF JOHN
THREE Poets, in three distant ages born,
TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON.
The Muse's fairest light in no dark time,
The dreamy rhymer's measured snore
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
And by long strides are left behind
Long days be his, and each as lusty-sweet The dear delights of womankind,
As gracious natures find his song to be ; Who wage their battles like their loves,
May Age steal on with softly-cadenced feet In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
Falling in music, as for him were meet And have achieved the crowning work
Whose choicest verse is harsher-toned than he! When they have trussed and skewered a Turk.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Another comes with stouter tread, And stalks among the statelier dead. He rushes on, and hails by turns
VERSES BY HENRY MARTEN, High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns ; And shows the British youth, who ne'er Will lag behind, what Romans were
(Confined in prison by Charles II., where he died in 1981, after When all the Tuscans and their Lars
thirty years' imprisonment. The initial letters of the lines forn an Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.
None knowing when brave fire shall set it free.
Reader, if you an oft-tried rule will trust,
You 'll gladly do and suffer what you must. ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 27TH FEBRUARY, 1867. I NEED not praise the sweetness of his song,
My life was worn with serving you and you, Where limpid verse to limpid verse succeeds Smooth as our Charles, when, fearing lest he And death is my reward, and welcome, too;
Revenge destroying but itself; while I wrong
To birds of prey leave my old cage and fly. The new moon's mirrored skiff, he slides along, Full without noise, and whispers in his reeds. Examples preach to the eye, - care, then, mine
says With loving breath of all the winds his name
Not how you end but how you spend your days. Is blown about the world, but to his friends A sweeter secret hides behind his fame, And Love steals shyly through the loud acclaim To murmur a God bless you ! and there ends.
INSCRIPTION FOR MARTEN'S PRISON. As I muse backward up the checkered years
(The immolation of this republican judge was celebrated in the But hush ! this is not for profaner ears ;
following lines by the youthful Southey during his short experience
as a democratic regenerator. In their original publication they Let them drink molten pearls nor dream the
were called: "Inscription for the Apartment in Chepiire cost.
Castle where Henry Marten the Regicide 735 imprisoned thirty
Years." After Southey became Poet Laureate he endeavored to Some suck up poison from a sorrow's core, suppress the poem, but unsuccessfully.) As naught but nightshade grew upon earth's ground ;
For thirty years secluded from mankind, Love turned all his to heart's-ease, and the more
Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls Fate tried his bastions, she but forced a door,
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread Leading to sweeter manhood and more sound. He paced around his prison : not to him
Did nature's fair varieties exist : Even as a wind-waved fountain's swaying shade He never saw the sun's delightful beams, Seems of mixed race, a gray wraith shot with Save when through yon high bars it poured a sad sun,
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime? So through his trial faith translucent rayed He had rebelled against the king, and sat Till darkness, half disnatured so, betrayed In judgment on him ; for his ardent mind A heart of sunshine that would fain o'errun. Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams, but such Surely if skill in song the shears may stay As Plato loved ; such as, with holy zeal, And of its purpose cheat the charmed abyss,
Our Milton worshipped. Blessed hopes ! awhile If our poor life be lengthened by a lay,
From man withheld, even to the latter days, He shall not go, although his presence may, When Christ shall come and all things be fulfilled.
And the next age in praise shall double this.
INSCRIPTION FOR BROWNRIGG'S CELL.
(Canning, who was retained by the other side, parodied Southey's honest lines in the "Anti-Jacobin," November 20, 1797, by the following verses, entitled : " Inscription for the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg the 'Prentice-cide was confined previous to her Execution.")
For one long term, or ere her trial came,
shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed.
And streams their diamond mirrors hold
To summer's face returning,
Shall nevermore be lighter,
Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter ! But all the more intensely true
His soul gave out each feature Of elemental love, — each hue
And grace of golden nature, The deeper still beneath it all
Lurked the keen jags of anguish ; The more the laurels clasped his brow
Their poison made it languish.
Of his own mournful singing,
While most the thorn was stinging.
Did fount bring freshness deeper Than that his placid rest this morn
Has brought the shrouded sleeper.
Where charnels choke the city,
The wren shall wake its ditty;
Is dear to hearts regretting, Around that spot admiring thought
Shall hover, unforgetting.
ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM
WHENCE could arise the mighty critic spleen,
No more these simple flowers belong
To Scottish maid and lover ; Sown in the common soil of song,
They bloom the wide world over.
The minstrel and the heather,
He sang of live together.
The moorland flower and peasant ! How, at their mention, memory turns
Her pages old and pleasant ! The gray sky wears again its gold
And purple of adorning, And manhood's noonday shadows hold
The dews of boyhood's morning. The dews that washed the dust and soil
From off the wings of pleasure,
TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD.
Take back into thy bosom, earth,
This joyous, May-eyed morrow, The gentlest child that ever mirth
Gave to be reared by sorrow ! 'T is hard — while rays half green, half gold,
Through vernal bowers are burning,