Through envy, through malice, through hating,
Against the world, early and late,
No jot of our courage abating—

Our part is to work and to wait.
And slight is the sting of his trouble

Whose winnings are less than his worth; For he who is honest is noble,

Whatever his fortunes or birth.

Grandma told me all about it,

Told me so I couldn't doubt it,

How she danced, my grandma danced; long ago

How she held her pretty head,

How her dainty skirt she spread,

How she slowly leaned and rose-long ago.

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny,

Dimpled cheeks, too, oh, how funny!
Really quite a pretty girl-long ago.
Bless her! why, she wears a cap,
Grandma does, and takes a nap

Every single day: and yet

Grandma danced the minuet-long ago.

"Modern ways are quite alarming,"

Grandma says, "but boys were charming"

(Girls and boys she means, of course) "long ago." Brave but modest, grandly shy;

She would like to have us try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet-long ago.

From "Along the Way." Copyright 1879.
Published by Charles Scribner's Sons,

Childe Harold's Farewell
to England

GEORGE GORDON BYRON
(Sixth Lord)

(Born January 22, 1788; Died April 19, 1824)

Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-Good-night.

A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong;

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along.

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind:

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friends, save these alone,

But thee-and One above.

Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming,
Snatched from the altars of insolent foes,
Burning with star-fires, but never consuming,
Flash its broad ribbons of lily and rose.

Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it,
Vainly his worshippers pray for its fall;
Thousands have died for it, millions defend it,
Emblem of justice and mercy to all:

Justice that reddens the sky with her terrors,
Mercy that comes with her white-handed train,
Soothing all passions, redeeming all errors,
Sheathing the sabre and breaking the chain.

Borne on the deluge of old usurpations,
Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate seas,
Bearing the rainbow of hope to the nations,

Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze!

God bless the Flag and its loyal defenders,

While its broad folds o'er the battle-field wave,

Till the dim star-wreath rekindle its splendors,
Washed from its stains in the blood of the brave!

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and

weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my
Lenore,

books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple

curtain

Thrilled me

before;

-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood

66

repeating,

'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;

This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,

"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of

yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door;

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it

wore,