English Songs and Ballads Part 58

'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.

'And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'

GAFFER GRAY

THOMAS HOLCROFT

Ho, why dost thou s.h.i.+ver and shake, Gaffer Gray?

And why does thy nose look so blue?

"Tis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new, Well-a-day!'

Then line thy worn doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray; And warm thy old heart with a gla.s.s.

'Nay, but credit I've none, And my money's all gone; Then say how may that come to pa.s.s?

Well-a-day!'

Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray; And knock at the jolly priest's door.

'The priest often preaches Against worldly riches, But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, Well-a-day!'

The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray; Warmly fenced both in back and in front.

'He will fasten his locks, And will threaten the stocks Should he ever more find me in want, Well-a-day!'

The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray; And the season will welcome you there.

'His fat beeves and his beer, And his merry new year, Are all for the flush and the fair, Well-a-day!'

My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray; What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live.

'The poor man alone, When he hears the poor moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give, Well-a-day!'

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

FELICIA HEMANS

The breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England sh.o.r.e.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came;-- Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;--

Not as the flying come, In silence, and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang: Till the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, To the anthem of the free.

The ocean-eagle soar'd From his nest, by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd:-- Such was their welcome home.

There were men with h.o.a.ry hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-- No--'twas a faith's pure shrine.

Yes, call it holy ground,-- Which first their brave feet trod!

They have left unstain'd what there they found-- Freedom to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d!

THE VOICE OF SPRING

I come, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy gra.s.s, By the green leaves opening as I pa.s.s.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers; And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains.

--But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have pa.s.sed o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his ta.s.sels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flas.h.i.+ng down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!

Where the violets lie may now be your home.

Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the suns.h.i.+ne,--I may not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in wood and glen; Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

The stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land!