NO COURSE I CARED TO KEEP. How long I sailed, and never took a thought And perilous sea. And though my ship was fraught NOVEMBER. The mellow year is hasting to its close; TO WORDSWORTH. There have been poets that in verse display WISDOM THE GRAY HAIRS TO A MAN. "I thank my God because my hairs are gray!" But have gray hairs brought wisdom? Doth the flight Of summer birds, departed while the light THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. Youth, thou art fled,-but where are all the charms Which, though with thee they came, and passed with thee, Should leave a perfume and sweet memory Could all the characters that Time hath wrought By one short word, the word I would not say :I thank my God, because my hairs are gray. TO SHAKSPEARE. The soul of man is larger than the sky; LIBERTY. Say, What is Freedom? What the right of souls TO A NEWLY-MARRIED FRIEND. Much like a patch of dusky snow in May, NO LIFE VAIN. Let me not deem that I was made in vain, For which the violet cared not while it stayed, THE SAME, AND NOT ANOTHER. Think upon Death, 'tis good to think of Death, I fain would see the same, and not another; THE WAIF OF NATURE. A lonely wanderer upon earth am I, The mother that erewhile hath hushed my cry, Ah! nowhere now. A matron grave and sage, ON RECEIVING ALMS. What can a poor man do but love and pray? Thomas Dale. Dale (1797-1870) was a native of London. He was Canon of St. Paul's, and ultimately Dean of Rochester, and was the author of two volumes of sermons (18321836). A collection of his poems appeared in 1842. They are noteworthy for beauty and delicacy of diction, and for smoothness of versification. He was for some time Professor of English Literature at the London University, and subsequently at King's College. He was the author of "The Widow of Nain," a poem; also of two volumes of sermons, published in 1830 and 1836. Triumphant in thy closing eye The hope of glory shone, Joy breathed in thine expiring sigh, To think the fight was won. Gently the passing spirit fled, Sustained by grace divine: Oh! may such grace on me be shed, And make my end like thine! STANZAS FOR MUSIC. Again the flowers we loved to twine Wreathe wild round every tree; Again the summer sunbeams shine, That cannot shine on thee. Verdure returns with fresher bloom To vale and mountain brow; All nature breaks as from the tomb; But "Where art thou ?" At eve, to sail upon the tide, So sweet while thou wert at my side, There is in heaven, and o'er the flood, Men say there is a voice of mirth In every grove and glen; But sounds of gladness on the earth The rippling of the summer sea, All speak with one sad voice to me; "Tis-"Where art thou?" DIRGE. FROM "THE WIDOW OF NAIN." Dear as thou wert, and justly dear, One thought shall check the starting tear, And thus shall Faith's consoling power William Motherwell. Motherwell (1797-1835) was a native of Glasgow. After studying Latin and Greek at the University, he was educated for the law. In 1828 he became editor of the Paisley Advertiser, and began to devote himself to literary pursuits. In 1830 he took charge of the Glasgow Courier, editing it with courage and ability. In politics he was a Tory, but a very sincere one. He early showed a taste for poetry; and in his fourteenth year had produced the first draft of his "Jeanie Morrison;" of which Miss Mitford says: "Let young writers observe that this finish was the result, not of a curious felicity, but of the nicest elaboration. By touching and retouching, during many years, did Jeanie Morrison' attain her perfection, and yet how completely has art concealed art! How entirely does that charming song appear like an irrepressible gush of feeling !" A volume of Motherwell's poems appeared in 1832, and at once gave him rank as a vigorous and genuine writer. It was republished in Boston in 1846. In his "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern," he earned celebrity as a literary antiquarian. At one period of his life he overstepped some social conventions, and incurred much unhappiness thereby, to which reference is occasionally made in the more personal of his poems. His taste, enthusiasm, and social qualities rendered him very popular among his townsmen and friends. He was suddenly struck down by apoplexy in the thirty-eighth year of his age. THE CAVALIER'S SONG. A steed, a steed of matchless speed! A sword of metal keene! All else to noble heartes is drosse, All else on earthe is meane. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; May tole from heaven an angel bright Then mounte! then mounte! brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine : I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, And channels deeper, as it rins, O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' by-gane days and me! It may be so,-but this is selfish sorrow A weakness and a wickedness to borrow The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow Shall never need. Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, Thou gentle heart; And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, Let no tear start; It were in vain,-for Time hath long been knelling,— "Sad one, depart!" LINES GIVEN TO A FRIEND A DAY OR TWO BEFORE THE DECEASE OF THE WRITER. Will there for me be any bright eye weeping Will there be any heart still memory keeping When the great winds through leafless forests rushing, Sad music make, When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gush ing, Like full hearts break,- Will there then one, whose heart despair is crushing, Mourn for my sake? When the bright sun upon that spot is shining, With purest ray, And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining, Burst through that clay, Will there be one still on that spot repining When no star twinkles with its eye of glory, And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary, Will there be then one, versed in misery's story, Pacing it round? Thomas Haynes Bayly. Bayly (1797-1839), a popular song-writer, was a native of Bath, England. He wrote thirty-six dramas and farces, among which "Perfection" and "Tom Noddy's Secret" still keep possession of the American stage. "Perfection" was refused by the managers, but Madame Vestris saw its merits, and brought it out with great applause. Bayly married young and happily, but his latter days were saddened by pecuniary reverses. He bore all, however, in the spirit and with the hope of a sincere Christian. In the epitaph, written by Theodore Hook, it is said of him: "He was a kind parent, an affectionate husband, a popular author, and an accomplished gentleman." His poetical works, in two volumes, with a memoir by his widow, appeared in 1848. Archdeacon Wrangham rendered some of Bayly's songs into Latin. Here are four lines of his "I'd be a Butterfly:" "Ah! Sim Papilio natus in flosculo, Floribus advolans, avolaus, osculo, THE SOLDIER'S TEAR. Upon the hill he turned, To take a last fond look Of the valley and the village church, And the cottage by the brook. He listened to the sounds So familiar to his ear, And the soldier leaned upon his sword, And wiped away a tear. Beside that cottage porch A girl was on her knees; She held aloft a snowy scarf Which fluttered in the breeze. She breathed a prayer for him— A prayer he could not hear; |