"Bring me this man," the caliph cried. The man
Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began
To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he;
"From bonds far worse Jaffàr delivered me;

From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;

Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffàr?"

Hàroun, who felt that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great,
He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go: and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,

And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!"

"Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and holding it

High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffàr!"

Leigh Hunt [1784-1859)

PARTING

IF thou dost bid thy friend farewell,

But for one night though that farewell may be,
Press thou his hand in thine.

How canst thou tell how far from thee

Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes? Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street, And days have grown to months, and months to lagging

years,

Ere they have looked in loving eyes again.

Parting, at best, is underlaid

With tears and pain.

Therefore, lest sudden death should come between,

Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm

vere idlers with the loitering rills,
of human love we little noted:
was nature; and the peace that floated
te mist, and dwelt upon the hills,
ccord subdued our wayward wills:
was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,
sely doting, asked not why it doted,
he unknown joy, which knowing kills.
find how dear thou wert to me;

an is more than half of nature's treasure,
ir beauty which no eye can see,

sweet music which no ear can measure;
w the streams may sing for others' pleasure,
sleep on in their eternity.

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]

FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER"

L!-but whenever you welcome the hour
kens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
hk of the friend who once welcomed it too,
ot his own griefs, to be happy with you.
5 may return,-not a hope may remain
w that have brightened his pathway of pain,-
e'er will forget the short vision that threw
intment around him, while ling'ring with you!

on that evening, when Pleasure fills up
ighest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
happy friends, shall be with you that night;

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles,—
Too blest if it tell me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled,-
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"AWAKE! AWAKE!"

From "Song of the Dawn"

AWAKE! awake! the stars are pale, the east is russet gray; They fade, behold the phantoms fade, that keep the gates of

Day;

Throw wide the burning valves, and let the golden streets be

free,

The morning watch is past—the watch of evening shall not be.

Put off, put off your mail, ye kings, and beat your brands

to dust;

A surer grasp your hands must know, your hearts a better

trust;

Nay, bend aback the lance's point, and break the helmet

bar,

A noise is on the morning winds; but not the noise of war!

For aye, the time of wrath is past, and near the time of rest, And honor binds the brow of man, and faithfulness his breast,

Behold, the time of wrath is past, and righteousness shall be, And the Wolf is dead in Arcady and the Dragon in the sea! John Ruskin [1819-1900]

The Voice of Toil

2869

THE VOICE OF TOIL

men saying, Leave hope and praying. shall be as all have been;

ind to-morrow bring fear and sorrow, er-ending toil between.

arth was young 'mid toil and hunger, we strove, and our hands were strong; eat men led us, with words they fed us, e us right the earthly wrong.

in story their deeds and glory, mes amidst the nameless dead; en from lying to us slow-dying good world to which they led;

ist and faster our iron master, g we made, for ever drives,

grind treasure and fashion pleasure er hopes and other lives;

ome is a hovel and dull we grovel,

ng that the world is fair;

o babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish; mirth is crime, and love a snare.

w shall lead us, what god shall heed us

e in the hell our hands have won? re no rulers but fools and befoolers,

at are fallen, the wise men gone.

men saying, Leave tears and praying, rp knife heedeth not the sheep;

not stronger than the rich and the wronger, ay breaks over dreams and sleep?

houlder to shoulder ere the world grows older!

5 in naught but thee and me;

before us, and the long years that bore us ders more than men may be.

Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry,
And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth,
While we the living our lives are giving

To bring the bright new world to birth.

Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows older! The Cause spreads over land and sea;

Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh,

And joy at last for thee and me.

William Morris [1834-1896]

TOM DUNSTAN, OR, THE POLITICIAN

Now poor Tom Dunstan's cold,

Our shop is duller;

Scarce a story is told,

And our chat has lost the old

Red-republican color!

Though he was sickly and thin,

'Twas a sight to see his face→→
While, sick of the country's sin,
With bang of the fist, and chin
Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied folk should be free,
And the money-bags be bled—
"She's coming, she's coming!" said he;
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"

All day we sat in the heat,
Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While the old Jew on his scat

Sat greasily grinning:
And there Tom said his say,

And prophesied Tyranny's death,

And the tallow burnt all day,

And we stitched and stitched away

In the thick smoke of our breath,
Wearily, wearily,