196

THE GARRET

(From the French of Béranger.)

WITH pensive eyes the little room I view,
Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long;
With a wild mistress, a staunch friend or two,
And a light heart still breaking into song:
Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
Rich in the glory of my rising sun,
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,

In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes, 'tis a garret-let him know't who will

There was my bed--full hard it was and small; My table there---and I decipher still

Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. Ye joys, that time hath swept with him away, Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun; For you I pawned my watch how many a day, In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and I
Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,

And distant cannon opened on our ears:
We rise, we join in the triumphant strain,—
Napoleon conquers-Austerlitz is won-
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Let us begone-the place is sad and strange—
How far, far off, these happy times appear;
All that I have to live I'd gladly change

For one such month as I have wasted here

To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
From founts of hope that never will outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour,
Give me the days when I was twenty-one!

William Makepeace Thackeray.

197

NIGHT AND MORNING

(Stanzas written in Sickness.)

FAREWELL Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim:
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night-
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapour chill;
Strong the earthy odour grows-
I smell the mould above the rose !

Welcome Life! the Spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,—
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold-
I smell the rose above the mould!

Thomas Hood.

198

A DAY OF SUNSHINE

OH gift of God! Oh perfect day,
Whereon shall no man work, but play,
Whereon it is enough for me,

Not to be doing, but to be!

Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.

And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,

Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,

Whose steep sierra far uplifts

Its craggy summits white with drifts.

Blow, winds, and waft through all the rooms

The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!

Blow, winds, and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!

Oh Life and Love! Oh happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
Oh heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

199

THE MEETING

SOME future day when what is now is not,
When all old faults and follies are forgot,
And thoughts of difference passed like dreams
away,

We'll meet again upon some future day.

When all that hindered, all that vexed our love,
As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above,
When all but it has yielded to decay,

We'll meet again upon some future day.

When we have proved, each on his course alone, The wider world and learned what's now unknown, Have made life clear and worked out each a way, We'll meet again—we shall have much to say.

With happier mood, and feelings born anew,
Our boyhood's bygone fancies we'll review,
Talk o'er old talks, play as we used to play,
And meet again on many a future day.

Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see,
In some far year, though distant yet to be,
Shall we indeed, ye winds and waters say,

Meet yet again, upon some future day?

Arthur Hugh Clough.

200

A FAREWELL

(To C. E. G.)

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe in skies so dull and grey;
Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you,
For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down,
To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel

Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever ; Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever, One grand sweet song.

Charles Kingsley.