gave but of the little that I knew:

How were the gift requited, while along Life's path I pace, couldst thou make weakness strong,

Death's new!

She sings no song of love's despair,
She sings no lover lowly laid,
No fond peculiar grief

Has ever touched or bud or leaf

Of her unblighted spring..

She sings because she needs must sing;
She sings the sorrow of the air
Whereof her voice is made.

That night in Britain howsoe'er
On any chords the fingers stray'd
They gave the notes of care.
A dim sad legend old
Long since in some pale shade
Of some far twilight told,
She knows not when or where,
She sings, with trembling hand on trembling
lute-strings laid:

:

The murmur of the mourning ghost

That keeps the shadowy kine

"Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And thro' the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro' the Monday morn ;

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring
His belted jewels shine!
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold,

The burnie that goes babbling by

Says nought that can be told.

Your sister Winifred !

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood -
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,

'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine;

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!

TOMMY'S DEAD

You may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,
There's not a blade will grow, boys,
'Tis cropp'd out, I trow, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red;
There's no sign of grass, boys,

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,

And the beasts must be fed :

You may turn Peg away, boys,

You may pay off old Ned,

We've had a dull day, boys,

And Tommy's dead.

Move my chair on the floor, boys,
Let me turn my head:

She's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred !

Take her away from me, boys,

Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,

Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head;
Out of the big oak-tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys, But I think it's not in my head, I've kept my precious sight, boys The Lord be hallowed!

Outside and in

The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivell'd and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.
There's nothing but cinders and sand,
The rat and the mouse have fed,
And the summer's empty and cold;
Over valley and wold

Wherever I turn my head

There's a mildew and a mould,
The sun's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,
And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys?
You're all born and bred,

'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she's gone before, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.

She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,

She knew she'd never see 't, boys,
And she stole off to bed;

I've been sitting up alone, boys,

For he 'd come home, he said,
But it's time I was gone, boys,
For Tommy's dead.

Put the shutters up, boys,
Bring out the beer and bread,
Make haste and sup, boys,

For my eyes are heavy as lead;
There's something wrong i' the cup, boys,
There's something ill wi' the bread,
I don't care to sup, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

I'm not right, I doubt, boys,
I've such a sleepy head,

I shall never more be stout, boys,
You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys?
The prayers are all said,
The fire's rak'd out, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head,
The night's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed,
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

I'm not us'd to kiss, boys,

You may shake my hand instead.
All things go amiss, boys,

You may lay me where she is, boys,
And I'll rest my old head:
'Tis a poor world, this, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

AMERICA

NOR force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye
Who north or south, on east or western land,
Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God
For God; O ye who in eternal youth
Speak with a living and creative flood
This universal English, and do stand
Its breathing book; live worthy of that
grand

Heroic utterance - parted, yet a whole,
Far yet unsever'd, -children brave and free
Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be
Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's
soul,

Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.

HOME IN WAR-TIME

SHE turn'd the fair page with her fairer hand

More fair and frail than it was wont to be-
O'er each remember'd thing he lov'd to see
She linger'd, and as with a fairy's wand
Enchanted it to order. Oft she fann'd
New motes into the sun; and as a bee
Sings thro' a brake of bells, so murmur'd
she,

And so her patient love did understand
The reliquary room. Upon the sill
She fed his favorite bird. "Ah, Robin,
sing!

He loves thee." Then she touches a sweet string

Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill Smiles all her soul- for him who cannot

hear

The raven croaking at his carrion ear.