SINGLE POEMS. THE DANCE OF DEATH. CHANT ROYAL, AFTER HOLBEIN. "Contra vim MORTIS Non est medicamen in hortis." He is the despots' Despot. All must bide, The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride, He draweth down; before the armèd Knight With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride; He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight; He beckons the grave Elder from debate, He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate, Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay; No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay; E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth, Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay There is no king more terrible than Death. All things must bow to him. And woe betide Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite; Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may; Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,— In the last furrow,-feels an icy breath, And knows a hand hath turned the team astray. There is no king more terrible than Death. He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, Blithe with the promise of her life's delight, That wanders gladly by her Husband's side, He with the clatter of his drum doth fright; He scares the Virgin at the convent gate. The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate; He hath no grace for weakness or decay; The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray,The feeble Sire whose footsteps faltereth,— All these he leadeth by the lonely way There is no king more terrible than Death. ENVOY. Youth, for whose ear and monishing, of late Have thou thy joy of living and be gay; But know not less that there must come a day,Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say, There is no king more terrible than Death. AUSTIN DOBSON. THE PRAISE OF DEATH. CHANT ROYAL. He is the Friend of friends. In his chill hand Sweet gifts hath he for all who make demand: All they who glare and rant in glee insane, They who in flames faint at the torturing stake, Through hatred or for holy conscience' sake, They who deplore the deed that life demeans, They who have tired of earth's illusive sheens, Come suppliant to this wraith who wavereth, And he, assenting, to their pleading leans: There is no friend more generous than Death. When pestilence is lowering o'er the land, When horror pallid, grisly, sole doth reign, When foes invade with sword and ruthless brand, When grief doth every aching heart o'erstrain, When fear's abroad on sea, on plain, on lake, When o'er the sun is drawn a pall opaque, When wounded patriots fall, with spent canteens And shattered swords, upon the wrecked fascines, When everything that is but injureth, Then he applies his balm, that soothes and cleans: There is no friend more generous than Death. Yea, in despite of vessel weakly manned, Amid the lightning, wind, or hail, or rain, Yea, mock at all disaster we may deign, We have a friend, o'er seers, or kings, or deans, Who, though the world to chaos drear careens, Yet with us lingereth and comforteth, And with his touch our souls anew impregns: There is no friend more generous than Death. All wants and woes by him are known and spanned; His mercy knoweth never halt or wane. He hath no choice; the lowly and the grand Alike win answer praying at his fane. His touch is light as 'twere the snow's soft flake, But O! no other touch such change can make, Such change from wintry wastes to summer greens, From wails of woe to pleasure's highest pæans, As that light touch he giveth when he saith: "Go where nor gloom nor sorrow intervenes!" There is no friend more generous than Death. ENVOY. Friend, Death is our friend! The weary he doth take Where nevermore hearts toil, or long, or quake, Where peace the soul from earth and sorrow weans, Where being ever greater glory gleans, Where, free from dross, the immortal reveleth O'er flowerful meads in heaven's wide demesnes: There is no friend more generous than Death. HENRY A. VAN FREDENberg. A NATIONAL HYMN. HAIL, Freedom! Thy bright crest And gleaming shield, thrice blest, Mirror the glories of a world thine own! Hail, heaven-born Peace! Our sight, Led by thy gentle light, Shows us thy paths with deathless flowers strown; Peace, daughter of a strife sublime, CHORUS: Thy sun is risen, and shall not set Upon thy day divine! Ages of unborn ages yet, America, are thine! Her one hand seals with gold Her portals of night's fold, Her other the broad gates of dawn unbars; O'er silent wastes of snows, Crowning her lofty brows, Gleams high her diadem of northern stars; While, clothed in garlands of warm flowers, Round Freedom's feet the South her beauty showers. Sweet is the toil of peace, Sweet the year's rich increase To loyal men who live by Freedom's laws; And in war's fierce alarms God gives stout hearts and arms To freemen sworn to save a rightful cause. Fear none, trust God, maintain the right, And triumph in unbroken union's peerless might! Welded in war's fierce flame, Forged on the hearth of fame, The sacred Constitution was ordained; Tried in the fire of time, Tempered by woes sublime, An age has passed and left it yet unstained, God grant its glories still may shine While ages fade forgotten in time's slow decline! Honor the few who shared To face war's desperate tide at the full flood; And into Freedom's wound Poured the sweet balsam of their brave hearts' blood, They fell, but o'er their glorious grave Floats free the banner of the cause they died to save. In radiance heavenly fair Floats on the peaceful air That flag, that never stooped from victory's pride. Those stars that softly gleam, Those stripes that o'er us stream, In war's grand agony were sanctified A holy standard, pure and free, To light the home of peace or blaze in victory. Father, whose mighty power Shields us through life's short hour, To Thee we pray. Bless us and keep us free, All that is past forgive, Teach us henceforth to live That through our country we may honor Thee; And, when this mortal life shall cease, Take Thou at last our souls to Thine eternal peace. F. MARION Crawford. JENNY KISSED ME. JENNY kissed me when we met, Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; Say that health and wealth have miss'd me; Say I'm growing old, but add Jenny kiss'd me! LEIGH HUNT. WHAT MY LOVER SAID. By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume, So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red, While he took my hand as he whispering said— (How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it!) In the high, wet grass went the path to hide, In the arms of my steadfast lover. And he looked down into my eyes and said— To listen to all that my lover said, Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me !) Had he moved aside but a little way, I could surely then have passed him; And he knew I never could wish to stay, And would not have heard what he had to say, Could I only aside have cast him. |