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How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden?

Umbered juices,

And pulped oozes
Pappy out of the cherry-bruises,
Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden.

With hair that musters

In globèd clusters, In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden; With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies,

Like velvet pansies

Where through escapes The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies; With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes

Of the feet whereunto it falleth down,

Thy naked feet unsandalled;
With robe gold-tawny that does not veil

Feet where the red

Is meshed in the brown, Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail. FRANCIS THOMPSON-A Corymbus for Autumn.

St. 2.

This avarice Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.

Macbeth. Act IV. Sc. 3. L. 84.

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Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.

THOMSON-Seasons. Autumn. L. 1.



We lack but open eye and ear
To find the Orient's marvels here;
The still small voice in autumn's hush,
Yon maple wood the burning bush.
WHITTIER-Chapel of the Hermits.

(See also E. B. BROWNING)

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AVARICE So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. BYRON—Don Juan. Canto I. St. 216.

(See also MIDDLETON)


With ridiculous and awkward action,
Which, slanderer, he imitation calls.

Troilus and Cressida. Act I, Sc. 3. L. 149.


Avaritiam si tollere vultis, mater ejus est tollenda, luxuries.

If you wish to remove avarice you must remove its mother, luxury. CICERODe Oratore. II. 40.

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Ac primam scelerum matrem, quæ semper ha

bendo Plus sitiens patulis rimatur faucibus aurum, Trudis Avaritiam.

Expel avarice, the mother of all wickedness, who, always thirsty for more, opens wide her jaws for gold. CLAUDIANUSDe Laudibus Stilichonis. II.


Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those. The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.

BURNSThe Banks of Ayr.

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Rhododendron And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red. DORA READ GOODALE-Spring Scatters Far

and Wide. 20 The fair azalea bows Beneath its snowy crest.

SARAH H. WAITMAN—She Blooms no More.

Crescit amor nummi quantum ipsa pecunia crescit.

The love of pelf increases with the pelf. JUVENAL—Satires. XIV. 139.







tific ways;


you know.


And moor herself within my room

My daughter! O my daughter!
Have you not heard the poets tell

G. W. CABLEThe New Arrival.
How came the dainty Baby Bell
Into this world of ours?

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; T. B. ALDRICH-Baby Bell.

Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; 2

She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Oh those little, those little blue shoes!

Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes. Those shoes that no little feet use.

CAMPBELLPleasures of Hope. Pt. I. L. 225. Oh, the price were high That those shoes would buy,

He is so little to be so large! Those little blue unused shoes!

Why, a train of cars, or a whale-back barge WILLIAM C. BENNETT—Baby's Shoes.

Couldn't carry the freight

Of the monstrous weight Lullaby, baby, upon the tree top;

Of all of his qualities, good and great. When the wind blows the cradle will rock, And tho' one view is as good as another, When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, Don't take my word for it. Ask his mother! And down comes the baby, and cradle and all. EDMUND VANCE COOKE—The Intruder. Said to be “first poem produced on American

soil.” Author a Pilgrim youth who came “The hand that rocks the cradle”—but there is over on the Mayflower. See Book Lover, no such hand. Feb., 1904.

It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us

understand; Rock-bye baby on the tree top,

So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish When the wind blows the cradle will rock,

days, When the bough bends the cradle will fall, When mothers reared their children in unscienDown comes the baby, cradle and all. Old nursery rhyme, attributed in this form to When they jounced them and they bounced CHARLES DUPEE BLAKE.

them, those poor dwarfs of long ago

The Washingtons and Jeffersons and Adamses, Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace,

Ascribed to BISHOP DOANE–What Might Secret joys and secret smiles,

Have Been. A complaint that for hygienic Little pretty infant wiles.

reasons, he was not allowed to play with WILLIAM BLAKE-A Cradle Song.

his grandchild in the old-fashioned way.

(See also WALLACE under MOTHERHOOD) How lovely he appears! his little cheeks In their pure incarnation, vying with

When you fold your hands, Baby Louise! The rose leaves strewn beneath them.

Your hands like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, And his lips, too,

With a pretty, innocent, saintlike air, How beautifully parted! No; you shall not Are you trying to think of some angel-taught Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon prayer His hour of midday rest is nearly over.

You learned above, Baby Louise. BYRON—Cain. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 14.

MARGARET EYTINGE-Baby Louise. He smiles, and sleeps!—sleep on

Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing.

And smile, thou little, young inheritor
Of a world scarce less young: sleep on and smile!

The morning that my baby came
Thine are the hours and days when both are

They found a baby swallow dead, And innocent!

And saw a something hard to name BYRON—Cain. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 24.

Fly mothlike over baby's bed.

Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, What is the little one thinking about?
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, Very wonderful things, no doubt;
To hail his father; while his little form

Unwritten history!
Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain! Unfathomed mystery!
The childless cherubs well might envy thee Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,
The pleasures of a parent.

And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, BYRON—Cain. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 171.

As if his head were as full of kinks

And curious riddles as any sphinx! There came to port last Sunday night

J. G. HOLLAND-Bitter-Sweet. First MoveThe queerest little craft,

ment. L. 6. Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked—and laughed.

When the baby died, It seemed so curious that she

On every side Should cross the unknown water,

Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud.











The baby was not wrapped in any shroud.
The mother made no sound. Her head was

That men's eyes might not see

Her misery. HELEN HUNT JACKSON—When the Baby Died.

Sweet is the infant's waking smile,

And sweet the old man's rest-
But middle age by no fond wile,

No soothing calm is blest.
KEBLE—Christian Year. St. Philip and St.

James. St. 3.

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the Everywhere into here.
GEO. MACDONALD—Song in At The Back

of The North Wind." Ch. XXXIII.
Whenever a little child is born
All night a soft wind rocks the corn;
One more buttercup wakes to the morn,

Somewhere, Somewhere.
One more rosebud shy will unfold,
One more grass blade push through the mold,
One more bird-song the air will hold,

Somewhere, Somewhere.


And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
Shall light thy dark up like a Star.
A Beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love and fainting faith.

GERALD MASSEY-Babe Christabel.


Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giv

ing: Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by

wasting! Black manhood comes when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. CHARLES LAMBThe Gypsy's Malison. Son

net in Letter to Mrs. Procter, Jan. 29, 1829. 3 The hair she means to have is gold, Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks old,

Plump are her fists and pinky.
She fluttered down in lucky hour
From some blue deep in yon sky bower-

I call her “Little Dinky."
A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
Perplex'd with the newly found fardel of life.


O child! O new-born denizen
Of life's great city! on thy head
The glory of the morn is shed,
Like a celestial benison!
Here at the portal thou dost stand,
And with thy little hand
Thou openest the mysterious gate
Into the future's undiscovered land.


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7 Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;

Oh! bless'd be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with

SAMUEL LOVER—Angel's Whisper.

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way
And wandered hither, so his stay
With us was short, and 'twas most meet,
That he should be no delver in earth's clod,
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet
To stand before his God:
O blest word-Evermore!

How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me and so I grew.
GEO. MACDONALD—Song in "At the Back of

The North Wind." Ch. XXXIII.

God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed: An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

Romeo and Juliet. Act I. Sc. 3. L. 59.


Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse
And presently all humbled kiss the rod!
Two Gentlemen of Verona. Act I. Sc. 2.

L. 57.


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the ballads, he need not care who should make Sweetest li'l' feller, everybody knows;

the laws of a nation. Dunno what to call him, but he's mighty lak' a ANDREW FLETCHER—Quoting the EARL OF rose;

CROMARTY. Letters to the Marquis of MontLookin' at his mammy wid eyes so shiny blue

In FLETCHER'S Works. P. 266. Mek' you think that Heav'n is comin' clost ter (Ed. 1749)

you. FRANK L. STANTONMighty Lak' a Rose.

Some people resemble ballads which are

only sung for a certain time. A little soul scarce fledged for earth

LA ROCHEFOUCAULD-Maxims. No. 220. Takes wing with heaven again for goal, Even while we hailed as fresh from birth

I have a passion for ballads. * They A little soul.

are the gypsy children of song, born under SWINBURNE—A Baby's Death.

green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and by3

paths of literature, -in the genial Summertime. But what am I?

LONGFELLOW—Hyperion. Bk. II. Ch. II. An infant crying in the night:

14 An infant crying for the light:

For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in. And with no language but a cry.

SAMUEL LOVER-Paddy Blake's Echo. TENNYSON-In Memoriam. Pt. LIV. St. 5. (See also BURTON, under BIRTH; CROUCH, under

More solid things do not show the complexion DEATH; also KING LEAR, SAXE, under LIFE)

of the times so well as Ballads and Libels.

JOHN SELDON-Libels. (Libels-pamphlets, Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat!

libellum, a small book.) Beat upon mine! you are mine, my sweet! All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet,

I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew! My sweet!

Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers. TENNYSON-Romney's Remorse.

Henry IV. Pt. I. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 129.

I love a ballad but even too well; if it be Baby smiled, mother wailed, Earthward while the sweetling sailed;

doleful matter, merrily set down, or a very

pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably. Mother smiled, baby wailed, When to earth came Viola.

Winter's Tale. Act IV. Sc. 4. L. 187.
FRANCIS THOMPSONThe Making of Viola.
St. 9.

A famous man is Robin Hood,

The English ballad-singer's joy. A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure.

WORDSWORTHRob Roy's Grave. TUPPER-Of Education.

BANISHMENT Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,

The world was all before them, where to choose Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide; Gently falling on thy head.

They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and

slow, WATTS--A Cradle Hymn.

Through Eden took their solitary way.

MILTONParadise Lost. Bk. XII. L. 646. BALLADS I've now got the music book ready,

Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that

Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all Do sit up and sing like a lady A recitative from Tancredi,

From twelve to seventy; and pouring war And something about “Palpiti!”

Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Sing forte when first you begin it,

Like a bold flood o'erbear.

Coriolanus. Act IV. Sc. 5. L. 133.
Piano the very next minute,
They'll cry "What expression there's in it!"
Don't sing English ballads to me!

No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish BarTHOMAS HAYNES BAYLYDon't Sing English dolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack FalBallads to Me.

staff, 'kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff,

valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair

being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack and And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,

banish all the world. That wholly consisted of lines like these.

Henry IV. Pt. I. Act II. Sc. 4. L. 520. CHARLES S. CALVERLY-Ballad.

Have stooped my neck under your injuries

And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds, Thespis, the first professor of our art,

Eating the bitter bread of banishment. At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.

Richard II. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 19.
DRYDENPrologue to Sophonisba.

I knew a very wise man that believed that O friar, the damned use that word in hell;

* if a man were permitted to make all Howlings attend it: How bast thou the heart,












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