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Lang Andrew
The Blue Poetry Book

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TO A SKYLARK

 
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert —
That from heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
 
 
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest:
Like a cloud of fire,
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
 
 
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O’er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.
 
 
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven
In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight —
 
 
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.
 
 
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.
 
 
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody: —
 
 
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
 
 
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love which overflows her bower:
 
 
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
 
 
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower’d,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves.
 
 
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken’d flowers,
All that ever was,
Joyous and clear and fresh, – thy music doth surpass.
 
 
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
 
 
Chorus hymeneal
Or triumphal chaunt,
Match’d with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt —
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
 
 
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
 
 
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.
 
 
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
 
 
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
 
 
Yet, if we could scorn,
Hate and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
 
 
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
 
 
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then as I am listening now!
 

P. B. Shelley.

THE NIGHTINGALE

 
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Everything did banish moan
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean’d her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefullest ditty
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by-and-by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
– Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp’d in lead:
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee
None alive will pity me.
 

R. Barnefield.

THE SLEEPER

 
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon:
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim;
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see, the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps! – and, lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her destinies!
 
 
O, lady bright, can it be right,
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop;
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully, so fearfully,
Above the closed and fringèd lid
‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees.
Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness.
 
 
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
 
 
My love, she sleeps! O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold —
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And wingèd panels fluttering back
Triumphant o’er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals;
Some sepulchre remote, alone,
Against whose portal she had thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone;
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,
It was the dead who groaned within.
 

E. A. Poe.

SPRING

 
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
 
 
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye, birds tune this merry lay,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
 
 
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street, these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring! the sweet Spring!
 

T. Nashe.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY

(BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH

LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON’S REGIMENT)

 
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
 
 
Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.
 
 
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,
That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
 
 
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The General rode along us to form us to the fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell’d into a shout
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.
 
 
And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line!
For God! for the Cause! for the Church, for the Laws!
For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!
 
 
The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks,
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.
 
 
They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.
 
 
Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:
Hark! hark! – What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?
Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.
Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.
 
 
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
 
 
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:
And he – he turns, he flies: – shame on those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.
 
 
Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your search secure,
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
 
 
Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;
And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.
 
 
Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,
Your perfum’d satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?
 
 
Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown,
With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;
There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls:
The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.
 
 
And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword;
And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.
 

Lord Macaulay.

ROSABELLE

 
O listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
 
 
‘Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
 
 
‘The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch³ and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
 
 
‘Last night the gifted Seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?’ —
 
 
‘’Tis not because Lord Lindesay’s heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
 
 
‘’Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide,
If ’tis not fill’d by Rosabelle.’ —
 
 
O’er Roslin all that dreary night,
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
’Twas broader than the watch-fire’s light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.
 
 
It glared on Roslin’s castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of oak,
And seen from cavern’d Hawthornden.
 
 
Seem’d all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin’d lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.
 
 
Seem’d all on fire within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer’d all the dead men’s mail.
 
 
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair —
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
 
 
There are twenty of Roslin’s barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold —
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
 
 
And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell;
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild wings sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle!
 

Sir W. Scott.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

IN SEVEN PARTS

PART I

 
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
’By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
 
 
The Bridegroom’s doors are open’d wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May’st hear the merry din.’
 
 
He holds him with his skinny hand,
‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.
‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
 
 
He holds him with his glittering eye —
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Mariner hath his will.
 
 
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner:
 
 
‘The ship was cheer’d, the harbour clear’d,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the light-house top.
 
 
‘The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
 
 
‘Higher and higher every day
Till over the mast at noon – ’
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast
For he heard the loud bassoon.
 
 
The Bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
 
 
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner:
 
 
‘And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
 
 
‘With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roar’d the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
 
 
‘And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
 
 
‘And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken —
The ice was all between.
 
 
‘The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It crack’d and growl’d, and roar’d and howl’d,
Like noises in a swound!
 
 
‘At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul
We hail’d it in God’s name.
 
 
‘It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steer’d us through.
 
 
‘And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariners’ hollo!
 
 
‘In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perch’d for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmer’d the white moon-shine.’
 
 
‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus! —
Why look’st thou so?’ – ‘With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross!’
 

PART II

 
‘The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.
 
 
‘And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners’ hollo!
 
 
‘And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ’em woe:
For all averr’d, I had kill’d the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!
 
 
‘Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averr’d, I had kill’d the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.
 
 
‘The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow stream’d off free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
 
 
‘Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down
‘Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!
 
 
‘All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.
 
 
‘Day after day, day after day,
We struck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
 
 
‘Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.
 
 
‘The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
 
 
‘About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green and blue, and white.
 
 
‘And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so;
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.
 
 
‘And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was wither’d at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.
 
 
‘Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the Cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.’
 

PART III

 
‘There pass’d a weary time. Each throat
Was parch’d, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! A weary time!
How glazed each weary eye!
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.
 
 
‘At first it seem’d a little speck,
And then it seem’d a mist;
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.
 
 
‘A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it near’d and near’d:
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tack’d and veered.
 
 
‘With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I suck’d the blood,
And cried, “A sail! a sail!”
 
 
‘With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.
 
 
‘See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel!
 
 
‘The western wave was all a-flame,
The day was well-nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.
 
 
‘And straight the Sun was fleck’d with bars,
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered,
With broad and burning face.
 
 
‘Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres?
 
 
‘Are those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there two?
Is Death that woman’s mate?
 
 
‘Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.
 
 
‘The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
“The game is done! I’ve won, I’ve won!”
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
 
 
‘The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out;
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea
Off shot the spectre-bark.
 
 
‘We listen’d and look’d sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seem’d to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman’s face by his lamp gleam’d white;
 
 
From the sails the dew did drip —
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horned Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.
 
 
‘One after one, by the star-dogg’d Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turn’d his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.
 
 
‘Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.
 
 
‘The souls did from their bodies fly, —
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it pass’d me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow!’
 

PART IV

 
‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown
As is the ribbed sea-sand.
 
 
‘I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown.’ —
‘Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
This body dropt not down.
 
 
‘Alone, alone, all all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
 
 
‘The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
 
 
‘I look’d upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I look’d upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.
 
 
‘I look’d to Heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.
 
 
‘I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.
 
 
‘The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
Nor rot nor reek did they:
The look with which they look’d on me
Had never pass’d away.
 
 
‘An orphan’s curse would drag to Hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.
 
 
‘The moving Moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside —
Her beams bemock’d the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread;
But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
The charmèd water burnt alway
A still and awful red.
 
 
‘Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they rear’d, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.
 
 
‘Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coil’d and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.
 
 
‘O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gush’d from my heart,
And I bless’d them unaware!
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I bless’d them unaware!
 
 
‘The self-same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.’