The Household Book of Poetry

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, "I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold,

And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can.” She said "Not so; but I will know If there be any faith in man.”

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse,

"The man will cleave unto his right.” "And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Though I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." "O mother, mother, mother!" she said, "So strange it seems to me.

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so;
And lay your hand upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown,

She was no longer Lady Clare; She went by dale, and she went by down With a single rose in her hair.

A lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,
And followed her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?”

"If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, For I am yours in word and deed; I'lay me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, Your riddle is hard to read."

I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die;
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter; he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he
died

In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora; take her for your wife;
For I have wished this marriage, night and
day,

For many years." But William answered short:

"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and

said:

DORA.

"You will not, boy! you dare to answer | So full a harvest; let me take the boy,

thus!

But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't;
Consider, William: take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish;
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again!'
But William answered madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he looked at
her

239

And I will set him in my uncle's eye
Among the wheat; that when his heart is
glad

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
And bless him for the sake of him that's
gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far off the farmer came into the field

The less he liked her; and his ways were And spied her not; for none of all his men

harsh;

But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and
wed

A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan called

Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart failed her; and the reapers
reaped,

And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
But when the morrow came, she rose and

took

The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers

His niece and said: "My girl, I love you That grew about, and tied it round his hat

"It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!"
And days went on, and there was born a
boy

To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he passed his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they
know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And looked with tears upon her boy, and
thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
"I have obeyed my uncle until now,
And I have sinned, for it was all through me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you.
You know there has not been for these five

years

To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then when the farmer passed into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said,
"Where were you yes-
terday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing
here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,
And answered softly, "This is William's
child!"

"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again :
"Do with me as you will, but take the child
And bless him for the sake of him that's
gone!"

And Allan said, "I see it is a trick

Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you
dared

To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more."
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers
fell

At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant. She bowed down
her head,

Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bowed down

The troubles I have gone through!' Then
he turned

His face and passed-unhappy that I am!
But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you
Will make him hard, and he will learn to
slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before."

And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that helped her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you;
He says that he will never see me more."
Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thy- I have killed him--but I loved him-my dear

self;

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs :-"I have been to blame-to blame! I have killed my son!

son!

May God forgive me!-I have been to blame.
Kiss me, my children!”

And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him harshness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home; The old man's neck, and kissed him many

And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child until he grows
Of age to help us."

So the women kissed
Each other, and set out and reached the farm.
The door was off the latch; they peeped and

saw

The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the
cheeks,

Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched
out

And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
From Allan's watch and sparkled by the
fire.

Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her;
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said:
"O father!-if you let me call you so-
I never came a-begging for myself,

Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.
O, sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I asked him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me.-
I had been a patient wife: but, sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus;
'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never
know

times.

Then they clung about

And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundred-fold;
And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's
child,

Thinking of William.

So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE LETTERS.

STILL on the tower stood the vane,

A black yew gloomed the stagnant air;
I peered athwart the chancel pane

And saw the altar cold and bare.
A clog of lead was round my feet,

A band of pain across my brow;
"Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet
Before you hear my marriage vow."

II.

I turned and hummed a bitter song
That mocked the wholesome human heart;
And then we met in wrath and wrong,
We met, but only meant to part.

SONNETS.

241

Full cold my greeting was and dry;

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved;

I saw with half-unconscious eye

She wore the colors I approved.

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SONNETS.

WHEN I do count the clock that tells the

time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves; Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;

Then, of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,

And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can

make defence,

Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence.

SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date,
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, un-
trimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his
shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can

see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse; Who Heaven itself for ornament doth use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse;

Making a compliment of proud compare, With Sun and Moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,

With April's first-born flowers, and all things

rare

That Heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in Heaven's air: I
Let them say more that like of hearsay
well;

I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.

LET those who are in favor with their stars, Of public honor and proud titles boast; Whilst I, whom Fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlooked for joy in that I honor most.
Great princes' favorites their fair leaves
spread,

But as the marigold, at the Sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foiled,
Is from the book of honor rased quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled.
Then happy I, that love and am beloved,
Where I may not remove nor be removed.

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's

waste.

Then, can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,

And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.

Then, can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before;
But if the while I think on thee, dear
friend,

All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

THY bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns Love, and all love's loving parts,

And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear

WHEN in disgrace with fortune and men's Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,

eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless

cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends pos-
sessed,

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost de-

spising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's

gate.

As interest of the dead, which now appear But things removed, that hidden in thee lie! Thou art the grave where buried Love doth live,

Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone:

Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

FULL many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy;

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