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WILLIAM YOUNG.

THE HORSEMAN.

WHO is it rides with whip and spurOr madman, or king's messenger?

The night is near, the lights begin To glimmer from the roadside inn,

And o'er the moorland, waste and wide,

The mists behind the horseman ride.

66 Ho, there within a stirrup-cup! No time have I to sleep or sup. "An honest cup!-and mingle well The juices that have still the spell

"To banish doubt and care, and slay

The ghosts that prowl the king's highway."

"And whither dost thou ride, my friend?"

"My friend, to find the roadway's end."

His eyeballs shone: he caught and quaffed,

With scornful lips, the burning draught.

"Yea, friend, I ride to prove my life;

If there be guerdon worth the strife

"If after loss, and after gain, And after bliss, and after pain,

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INDEX TO FIRST LINES

A bee flew in at my window,

Abide not in the land of dreams,

Abide with me! fast falls the eventide,

A bird sang sweet and strong,

A blue-eyed child that sits amid the noon,
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase),

A brace of sinners, for no good,.

A certain artist - I've forgot his name-
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,

A clergyman who longed to trace,

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
Across the narrow beach we flit,
Across the steppe we journeyed,
A district school, not far away, .
Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad,
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever,

A face that should content me wondrous well,
Afar in the desert I love to ride,

A fellow in a market town,

A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
A fox, full fraught with seeming sanctity,
Afraid of crities! an unworthy fear,.
After so long an absence,

After this feud of yours and mine,
Against her foes Religion well defends,
Against her mouth she pressed the rose,
Age has now,. . . .

A good man there was of religion,.

A great mind is an altar on a hill,

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A harmless fellow, wasting useless days,

Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all he sings,

Ah, happy day, refuse to go!

Ah me! forevermore,

Ah! my heart is weary waiting:

Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see

A holy stillness, beautiful and deep,

Ah, real thing of bloom and breath,

Ah then, how sweetly closed those crowded days

A hundred noble wishes till my heart,

Ah, what avails the sceptred race?

Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven?.

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb?

A keen insistent hint of dawn,
Alas-how light a cause may move,

Alas, long suffering and most patient God,

Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!

Alas! the setting sun,

Alas! they had been friends in youth,
Alas, to our discomfort and his own,

A life on the ocean wave,

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A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain,.

A lily rooted in a sacred soil,.

A little child, beneath a tree,

A little hand, a fair soft hand,

All are not taken! they are left behind,

All beautiful things bring sadness,

All change; no death,

All conquest-flushed, from prostrate Python, came,

All day I heard a humming in my ears,

All joy was bereft me the day that you left me,

All moveless stand the ancient cedar trees,

All promise is poor dilatory man,

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, All round the lake the wet woods shake,

All the kisses that I have given,

"All the rivers run into the sea,"
All the world's a stage, .

All things have a double power,
All things once are things for ever;
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
All winter drives along the darkened air,
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,.
Almighty Father! let thy lowly child,
Almost at the root,

Alone I walked the ocean strand,

A lovely sky, a cloudless sun,

Although I enter not,

A man's life is a tower,

A man so various that he seemed to be,

A man there came, whence none could tell,
Amid the elms that interlace,

o'Queen,

A monarch soul hath ruled thyself, O
Among so many, can He care?

And are ye sure the news is true?
And greedy Avarice by him did ride,.

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now,
And is there care in heaven?

And is the swallow gone?

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Answer me, burning stars of night!

A poet! He hath put his heart to school,

A power hid in pathos; a fire veiled in cloud :
April is in;

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Arrived at home, how then they gazed around,
A sad old house by the sea,

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
As doctors give physic by way of prevention,
As dyed in blood, the streaming vines appear,

A sensitive plant in a garden grew,

A sentence hath formed a character,.

A sentinel angel sitting high in glory,

A serener blue,

As I came round the harbor buoy,.
A simple child,

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W. Howitt,

E. Spenser,

528

296

Scott,

477

Crabbe,

719

Pope,

767

Falconer,

217

Leland,

339

Rogers,

462

Massey,.

368

H. Smith,

511

Seaver,

482

Gilder,

233

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A simple, sodded mound of earth,

Preston,.

435

As I was sitting in a wood,.

Ask me no more; the moon may draw the sea,

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,

Ask me why I send you here,.

A slanting ray of evening light,.

As leaves turned red,.

.

As light November snows to empty nests,
As lords their laborers' hire delay,

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

A sower went forth to sow,

As precious gums are not for lasting fire,
As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay,
As slow our ship her foaming track,

As sweet as the breath that goes,

As sweet desire of day before the day,

A steed, a steed of matchless speed!

A street there is in Paris famous,

As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood,
As through the land at eve we went,.

A story of Ponce de Leon,

A summer mist on the mountain heights,

As virtuous men pass mildly away,

As when a little child returned from play,
As when in watches of the night we see,

As woodbine weds the plants,

At dawn the fleet stretched miles away,

At dawn when the jubilant morning broke,

A thing of beauty is a joy forever,.

A thousand daily sects rise up and die,

A thousand years shall come and go,.

At kirk knelt Valborg, the cold altar-stone,

At midnight in his guarded tent,

At our creation, but the word was said;

A traveller across the desert waste,

At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow,
Autobiography! so you say,.

Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such,
A weary weed, tossed to and fro,

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wife, as tender, and as true withal,

Ay, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring day,

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where,

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,

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Bards of passion and of mirth,

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Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

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Becalmed along the azure sky,

Trowbridge,

609

Because I feel that, in the heavens above,

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Because I hold it sinful to despond,

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Benighted in my pilgrimage,- alone,-.

Tilton,

602

Be patient! oh, be patient! Put your ear against the earth, Trench,

604

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By these mysterious ties, the busy power,.

Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save,

Cheap, mighty art! her art of love,

Blessed is he who hath not trod the ways,
Blessings on thee, little man,

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Blessed is the man whose heart and hands are pure
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Blow, northern winds!

Bowed half with age and half with reverence,
Brave spirit, that will brook no intervention,"
Break, break, break, .

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Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command,
Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights,
Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss,
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art,
Bring poppies for a weary mind,
Brown bird, with a wisp in your mouth,
Burly, dozing humble-bee,.

"But a week is so long!" he said,

But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime,
But happy they! the happiest of their kind!
But list a low and moaning sound,
But not e'en pleasure to excess is good,.
But now the games succeeded, then a pause,.
But what strange art, what magic can dispose,
But who the melodies of morn can tell?
By Nebo's lonely mountain,

By numbers here from shame or censure free,

By the flow of the inland river, .

By the motes do we know where the sunbeam is slanting,

By the pleasant paths we know,

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,.

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm,

Calm on the bosom of our God,

Centre of light and energy! thy way,

Charlemagne, the mighty monarch,

Children, that lay their pretty garlands by,

"Choose thou between!" and to his enemy,

Christ, whose glory fills the skies,

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,

Cleon hath ten thousand acres,

Keats,
Winter,

A. T. De Vere,

186

Whittier,

639

Symonds,

558

Shakespeare,

484

Hopkins,

828

M. Howitt,.

295

A. Fields,

224

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311

658

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