The Land of Song Volume Iii Part 11

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the ch.o.r.e-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in.

And the song she was singing ever since In my ears sounds on:-- "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!

Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE LAND OF SONG: Book III.

_PART II_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHPLACE.]

PART TWO.

THE MAN THAT HATH NO MUSIC IN HIMSELF.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "The Merchant of Venice."_

ADVERSITY.

Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life exempt from public haunt Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From_ "_As You Like It._"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

TO THE DAISY.

In youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy.

But now my own delights I make,-- My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of thee, sweet daisy!

Thee winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few gray hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs That she may sun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right: And autumn, melancholy wight!

Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveler in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted, Nor grieved if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling.

Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot suns.h.i.+ne, lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention.

If stately pa.s.sions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure.

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going.

Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,--when day's begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time;--thou not in vain Art Nature's favorite.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786.

A SELECTION.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet!

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun s.h.i.+eld; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy una.s.suming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

ROBERT BURNS.