 Bars Fight by Lucy Terry Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby Midland Washington August, Twas the 25th, 1746 The Indians did in ambush lay Some very valiant men to slay The names of whom I'll not leave out Samuel Allen like a hero fought And though he was so brave and bold His face no more shall we behold Eliezer Hawkes was killed outright Before he had time to fight Before he did the Indian sea Was shot and killed immediately Oliver Amsdon, he was slain Which caused his friends much grief and pain Simeon Amsdon, they found dead Not many rods distant from his head Adonizia Gillett, we do hear Did lose his life which was so dear John Sadler fled across the water And thus escaped the dreadful slaughter Eunice Allen sees the Indians coming In hopes to save herself by running And had not her petticoat stopped her The awful creatures had not catched her Nor Tommy hawked her on her head And left her on the ground for dead Young Samuel Allen, oh, lackaday Was taken and carried to Canada End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Black Riders and Other Lines by Stephen Crane Read for LibriVox.org by Dale Grothman 49 I stood musing in a black world Not knowing where to direct my feet And I saw the quick stream of men Pouring ceaselessly filled with eager faces A torrent of desire I called to them Where do you go? What do you see? A thousand voices called to me A thousand fingers pointed Look, look, there I know not of it But lo, in the far sky Shown a radiance, ineffable, divine A vision painted on a pal And sometimes it was And sometimes it was not I hesitated Then from the stream came the roaring voices Impatient Look, look, there So again I saw And leapt unhesitatingly And struggled and fumed With outspread clutching fingers The hard hills tore my flesh The ways bit my feet At last I looked again No radiance in the far sky Ineffable, divine No vision painted upon the pal And always my eyes ached for the light Then I cried in despair I see nothing Oh, where do I go? The torrent turned again its faces Look, look, there And at the blindness of my spirit they screamed Fool, fool, fool End of poem This recording is in the public domain Christmas Folk Song by Duncan Campbell Scott Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk Those who die on Christmas Day I heard the triumphant Seraph say Will be remembered for they died Upon the holy Christmas tide When they attain to paradise The angels with the tranquil eyes Will ask if Jesus rules on earth The anniversary of his birth This question do they ask all way Of those who die on Christmas Day Those who are born on Christmas Day I heard the triumphant Seraph say Will bring again the peace on earth That came with gentle Christ his birth They may be lowly folk and poor Living about the manger door They may be kings of mighty line Their lives alike will be benign To them belongeth peace all way Those who are born on Christmas Day End of poem This recording is in the public domain From the sleeping bard by Ellis Wynn Leave land and house We must some day For humans sway not long doth bide Leave pleasures and festivities And pedigrees are boast and pride Leave strength and loveliness of man Wet, sharp and king, experience dear Leave learning deep and much loved friends And all that tends our life to cheer From death then is there no relief That ruthless thief and murderer fell Who to his shambles beareth down all All we own and us as well Ye moneyed men, ye who would feign Your wealth retain eternally How braved would be a sum to raise And the good grace of death to buy How brave, ye who with beauty beam On rank, supreme, who fix your mind Should ye your captivations muster And with their luster king death lined O ye who are of footmost light Who are in the height now of your spring Fly, fly, and ye will make us gap If ye can scape death's cruel fling The song and dance afford I wean Relief from spleen and sorrow's grave How very strange there is no dance Nor tune of fronts from death can save Ye travellers of sea and land Who know each strand below the sky Declare if ye have seen a place Where Adam's race can death defy Ye scholars and ye lawyer crowds Who are as gods reputed wise Can ye from all the lower ye know Gains death bestow some good advice The world, the flesh, and devil Compose the direst foes of mortal's power But take good heed of death the great From the lost gate, destruction o'er Tis not worthwhile of death to create Of his lost gate and courts so wide But, O, reflect at much importance Of the two courts in which year tried It here can little signify At the street high we cross or low Each lofty thought does rise be sure The soul to lure to deepest woe But by the wall that's near repast To grip thee fast when death prepares Heed heed thy steps for thy Mest mourn the slightest turn for endless years When hopes the door and swiftly hints Do its residents eternal flies The soul it matters much which side Off the gulf wide its journey lies Deep penitence amended life A bosom rife of zeal and faith Can help to man alone in part Against the smart and sting of death These things to thee seem worthless now But not so low will they appear When thou art come, O thoughtless friend, Just to the end of thy career Thou wilt deem when thou hast done with earth These things of worth unspeakable Beside the gulf so black and drear The gulf of fear-twixed heaven and hell And of home this recording is in the public domain In some few years, when you and I, Perhaps in some few months, Shall lie, where lie at last everyone must, Little will it approve our dust, That one shall right above our tombs They gave their days to glums and glooms Much rather had I someone said, They loved to wantoness these dead They kissed too much, I'd have one say, Until they kissed their souls away Still they were young, and lip to lip They found a way to make time skip And they were bold enough to find A way to brave him, mind to mind And sometimes, by their deadly art, They caught and crushed him, heart to heart This elegy, me thinks, Becomes us better than our glooms and glums 1915 End of poem This recording is in the public domain And the honeyed words of fluttery And the nights who so gallantly tell me I, The sun resemble, everything is hateful to me, Since I, by the beaming moonlight, Saw the night whose loot alerted me To the window every evening, As he stood so slim but daring, And his eyes shot lightning glances, From his pale and noble features, Truly he, Saint George, resembled In this manner Donna Clara thought, And on the ground then looked she, When she raised her eyes, They handsome unknown night Was standing by her, Pressing hands with loving whispers, Wander, they beneath the moonlight, And the sepiae gently wheezed them, Wanderously the roses greet them, Wanderously the roses greet them, Like love's messengers all glowing, But my love's one pretty tell me, Why so suddenly, thy rednessed, Twas the flies that stung me, dearest, And the flies are all the summer quiet, As the long-nosed Jewish fellows, Never mind the flies and Jews dear, Said the night with fawned caresses, From the almond trees are falling Thousand white and fleecy blossoms, Thousand white and fleecy blossoms, Their sweet fragrance shed around them, But my loved one pretty tell me, Is thy heart devoted to me? Yes, I truly love thee, dearest, And I swear it by the Saviour, Whom the God detested, Jews urched wickedly, And vilely murdered. Never mind the Jews and Saviour, Said the night with fawned caresses, In the distance, snow-white lilies, Dreamily, light-bath are bending, Bathed in light, the snow-white lilies Gaze upon the stars above them, But my loved one pretty tell me, Has thou not a false oath taken? Falsehood is not in me, dearest, Since within my breast there flows Not in one single drop of myrrh's blood, Or of dirty Jew's blood either. Never mind the myrrh's and the Jews dear, Said the night with fawned caresses, And he to a myrtle pire, Leads to fair Alcaldi's daughter. With the nets of love so tender, He hath secretly enclosed her, Short their words and long their kisses, And their hearts are overflowing. Like a wedding song, all melting, Sings the nightingale the dear one. Glow-worms on the ground are moving, As if in the torch-dance circling. Silence reigns within the bire, Not as heard except The stealthy whispers of the cunning myrtles, And the breathing of the flarets. But soon kettle-drums and trumpets Echo from the lofty castle, And the awakening, clara-quickly, From the night's arm, frees her person. Hark! they're calling me, my dearest, Yet before we part, Thou needest must thy dear name To me discover, Which Thou hast so long concealed, And the night, with radiant smiling, Kissed the fingers of his donna, Kissed her lips and kissed her forehead, And at last these words he uttered, Aye, senora, aye, your loved one, And the son of the much honoured Great and learned scribe, The rabbi Israel of Saragosa. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Epigram 7 by Anonymous Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia Epigram 7 I swore I loved, and you believed, Yet, trust me, we were both deceived. Though all I swore was true, I loved one generous, good, and kind, A form created in my mind, And thought that form was you. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Evergreens Cemetery, near Albany By Alfred Billing Street Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shampf When life's last breath has faintly ebbed away, And not is left but cold unconscious clay, Still doth affection bend and anguish deep, Or the pale brow, To fondly gaze in weep. What, though the soul hath soared in chainless flight, Round the spurned frame, still plays a sacred light, A hallowed radiance never to depart, Poured from its solemn source the stricken heart. Not to the air should then be given the dead, Not to the flame, nor yet called Ocean's bed, but to the earth, The earth from whence it rose, There should the frame be left to its repose. There our great mother guards her holy trust, Spreads her green mantle o'er the sleeping dust, Where glows the sunshine, where the branches wave, And birds yield song, flowers fragrance round the grave. They're off to hold communion, do we stray? Their droops are mourning memory, When away, an ean when years have passed, Our homeward feet seek first with eager haste, That spot to greet, and the fond hope lives ever in our breast, When death too claims us, there our dust shall rest. All these fair grounds with lavish beauty spread, Nature's sweet charms we give them to the dead. Those swelling uplands, whence the raptured sight, Drinks in the landscape, smiling rich and bright, Woodlands and meadows, trees and roofs and rills, The glittering river and the fronting hills, That nestling dell with bowery limbs o'er head, And this its brother opening to the tread, Each with its nyad tripping low along, Striving to hide but freely offering song. These old deep woods, where nature wild and rude, Has built a throne for musing solitude, Where sunshine scarce finds way to shrub and moss, And lies the fractured trunk the earth across. These winding paths that lead the wandering feet Through minister aisles and arbors dim and sweet, To soothe thy discord into harmony, O solemn, solemn death we dedicate to thee. Here will his steps the morning husband bend, With sympathizing nature for his friend. In the low murmur of the pine, He'll hear the voice that once was music to his ear. In the waving light of the bow, He'll view the form that sunshine once around him through. As the lone mother treads each leafy bower, Her infant's looks will smile from every flower. Its laugh will echo in the warbling glee Of every bird that flits from tree to tree. In the dead trunk laid prostrate by the storm, The child will see its perished parent's form, And in the sighing of the evening breath Will hear those faltering tones late hushed in death. Through these branched paths will contemplation wind, And stamp wise nature's teachings on his mind. As the white gravestones glimmer to his eye, A solemn voice will thrill him, thou must die. When autumn's tints are glittering in the air, The voice will whisper to his soul, prepare. When winter's snows are spread or knoll and dell, O this is death that solemn voice will swell. But when with spring streams leap and blossoms wave, Hope Christian, hope, twill say there's life beyond the grave. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. One. Long was the great fig by the price fighting swains, Soul monarch acknowledged of merry-bone plains, To the towns far and near did his valour extend, And swam down the river from tame to grave's end. Where lived Mr. Sutton, pipe-maker by trade, Who hearing that fig was thought such a stout blade, Resolved to put in for a share of his fame, And so sent to challenge the champion of tame. Two. With alternate advantage two trials had passed, When they fought out the robbers on Wednesday last, To see such a contest the house was so full, There hardly was room left to thrust in your skull, With a prelude of cudgels we first were saluted, And two or three shoulders most handsomely fluted, Till weary at last with inferior disasters, All the company cried, Come, the masters, the masters. Three. Whereupon the bold Sutton first mounted the stage, Made his honours as usual and yearn to engage, Then fig with the visage so fierce yet sedate, Came and entered the lists with his fresh-shaven paint. Their arms were encircled with armatures too, With a red ribbon Sutton's and figs with blue, Thus adorned the two heroes, twigs shoulder and elbow, Shook hands and went to it, and the word it was Bilbo. Four. Sure such a concern in the eyes of spectators Was never yet seen in our amphitheaters, Our commons and peers from their several places To have an inch distance all pointed their faces, While the rays of old fevers that shot through the skylight Seemed to make on the stage a new kind of twilight, And the gods, without doubt, if one could but have seen them, Were peeping there through to do justice between them. Five. Fig struck the first stroke, And with such a vast fury that he broke his huge weapon in twain, I assure you, and if his brave rival this blow had not warded, His head from his shoulders had quite been discarded. Fig armed him again, and they took the other tilt, And then Sutton's blade ran away from its hilt, The weapons were frighted, but as for the men, in truth, They never mined it, but at it again. Six. Such a force in their blows, You'd have thought it a wonder every stroke they received Did not cleave a massunder, yet so great was their courage, So equaled a skill that they both seemed as safe as a thief in a mill, While in doubtful attention they in victory stood, And which side to take could not tell for her blood, But remained like the ass, twigs the bundles of hay, Without ever stirring an inch either way. Seven. Till Jove to the gods signified his intention, In a speech that he made them too tedious to mention, But the upshot on't was, that at that very bout, From a wound in Fig's sight the hot blood spouted out. Her ladyship then seemed to think the case plain, But Fig, stepping forth with a sullen disdain, Showed the gash and appealed to the company round, If his own broken sword had not given him the wound. Eight. That bruises and wounds a man's spirit should touch, With danger so little, with honour so much, While they both took a dram and returned to the battle, And with a fresh fury they made the sword's rattle, While Sutton's right arm was observed to bleed, By a touch from his rival, so Jove had decreed, Just enough for to show that his blood was not icker, But made up like figs of the common red liquor. Nine. Again they both rushed with as equal a fire on, Till the company cried, Hold enough of cold iron, to the quarter staff now lads, So first having rammed it, they took to their wood, And in faith never shammed it, The first bout they had was so fair and so handsome, That to make a fair bargain was worth a king's ransom, And Sutton such bangs on his neighbour imparted, Would have made any fibres but figs to have smarted. Ten. Then after that bout they went on to another, But the matter must end on some fashion or other, So Jove told the gods he had made a decree, That fig should hit Sutton a stroke on the knee, Though Sutton disabled as soon as he hit him, Would still have fought on, but Jove would not permit him, T'was his fate, not his fault, that constrained him to yield, And thus the great fig became lord of the field. And the poem, this recording is in the public domain. A fit of fame, and a full of faces, strange with fear. I hurried home, still wrapped in that dark spell, And all the night upon the world's great lie I pondered, And a voice seemed whispering nigh. You died long since, and all this thing is hell. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A fit of the spleen, in imitation of Shakespeare. Farewell, vain world, and thou its vainest part, O lovely woman, Framed from man's destruction. Beauty, like nightshade, To the seeming wise, if seen, gives wishes, Restless, endless longings, if tasted, death. Too hard decree of fate, that life must be a burden, or must end. Farewell, vain world, dwelling of ills and fears, Full of fond hopes, false joys, and sad repentance. For though sometimes warm fancy lights a fire, That mounting upwards, darts its pointed head, Up through the unopposing air to heaven, Yet then comes thought and cold consideration. Lame after thought, with endless scruples fraught, Be numbed with tears, to damp the goodly blaze. Farewell, vain world, yet ere I die I'll find contentment seat, Unknown to guilt or sorrow. Haste then, for nimble death pursues me close, Me things I hear his steps, though trod in air. My fluttering soul seems like a bird entrapped, That beats his wings against the prison walls, And feign would be at liberty again. And oft the death-watch, with ill-boding beats, Hath warned me that my time would soon expire, And that life's thread, never to be wound up more, Would by the spring of fate be quickly drawn To its full stretch. Haste then, and let me find the shelter, That may shut out noise and light, save one dim taper, Whose neglected snuff, grown higher than the flame, Shall with its bulk almost extinguish it. No noise be there, but that of falling water, friend to thought. Hail gloomy shade, the abode of modesty, void of deceit, No glittering objects here dazzle the eyes, And thou, delightful silence, silence, The great divinity's discourse, the angel's language, And the hermit's pride, the help of waking wisdom, And its food. Indeed, philosophers have just replaced the sovereign good, Free from the broken vows, the calamities, reproaches, And the lies, of which the noisy bebling world complains. So destruct dear, with some deep wound oppressed, Lies down to die, the arrow in his breast, There hidden shades, and wasting day by day, Inly he bleeds, and pants his life away. The fox, who had lost his tail, found out, That now he could faster go. He had less to cover when hid for prey, He had less to carry on hunting-day, He had less to guard when he stood at bay, He was really better so. Now he was a fine altruistical fox, With the good of his race at heart, So he ran to his people with tail his speed, To tell of the change they all must need, And recommend, as a righteous deed, That they and their tail should part. Plain was the gain as plain could be, But his words did not avail. For they all replied, We perceive your case. You do not speak for the good of the race, But only to cover your own disgrace, Because you have lost your tail. Then another fox, of a liberal mind, With a tail of splendid size, Became convinced that the tail's state Was better for all of them, soon or late, Said he, I will let my own tail wait, And so I can open their eyes. Plain was the gain as plain could be, But his words did not avail. For they all made answer, My plausible friend, You talk wisely and well, But you talk to no end. We know you're dishonest, And only pretend, For you have not lost your tail. All my heart's most mighty passions, Boldly tell in manly tone, Be thy love revealed in whispers, Be thy wrath in thunder shone. Though not all thy life thou singest, Sing when youth is fierce and strong, Only in the month of blossoms Nightingales outpour their song, Canst thou not collect in volumes What the hours in passing teach, Toss the leaves for winds to scatter, Trust that youth will snatch at each. Fare ye well, ye art's mysterious, Necromancy alchemy, Formal rules are weak to bind us, Now our art is posy. Sacred still we deem the spirits, Though their names like vapors flee, Worthy still we deem the master, Though the art to all is free. Not in chilly marble statues, Not in ruined fades abides, But in dewy groves, The spirit who or German art presides. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Passing chime by chime, Heeds not our race. Meanwhile we weave upon his robes array, Embroideries of doubts and hopes and fears, The golden threads of laughter, By the way, gray threads of tears. Careless sits time of garment gray or gold, Although our passionate labours never cease, Till weaving hands are weary, And we grow old, and pass to peace. And who that gazes on that garb of time, Shall in the far light of a distant day, Catch out of color of song, or room of rhyme, Shall all be gray. Yet till the end fall, and the day close, Let me weave in the web of pain, And the wolf of tears, the color of sun-bright seas, And the red of the rose in my loom of years. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I, from the roots of the dark thorn, Am thither, and knock on the door. Who speaks? I, once, was my speech sweet, As the birds on the air. When the echo lurks by the waters to heed, Tis I speak thee fairer. Dark is the hour. I am cold. Lone is my house. I but mine. Sight, touch, lips, eyes gleam in vain. Long dead these to thine. Silence, still faint on the porch, Broke the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearyed hand, Over keys, bolts, and bars. A face peered, all the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone. Not, but vast sorrow was there. The sweet cheat gone. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Till we loved. Were we not weaned till then, But sucked on country pleasures childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers den? Twas so. But this all pleasures fancies be. If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired and got, Twas but a dream of thee. And now good morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear. For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room and everywhere. Let's see discoverers to new worlds have gone. Let maps to other worlds on worlds have shone. Let us possess one world, each hath one and is one. My face and thine eye, thine and mine appears. And true plain hearts do in the faces rest. Where can we find two better hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies was not mixed equally. If our two loves be one, or thou and I love so alike, That none do slacken, none can die. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Turned from great a red since first my spirit wandered forth From the drear cities of the north, and to Italia's mountains fled. And here I set my face towards home. Alas, my pilgrimage is done. Although, me thinks, Yon blood-red sun Marshals the way to Holy Rome. O blessed lady, who dost hold upon the seven hills thy reign. O mother without blot or stain crowned With bright crowns of triple gold. O Roma, Roma, at thy feet I lay this barren gift of song, For, ah, the way is steep and long That leads unto thy sacred street. Two. And yet what joy it were for me To turn my feet unto the south, And journeying towards the Tibermouth To kneel again at Fia Soleil. Or wandering through the tangled pines That break the gold of Arno's stream To see the purple mist and gleam Of mourning on the Apennines. By many a vineyard hidden home, Orchard and Olive Garden Gray, Till rise from the companion's way The seven hills, the golden dome. Three. A pilgrim from the northern seas, What joy for me to seek alone The wondrous temple and the throne Of him who holds the awful keys. When, bright with purple and with gold, Come priest and holy cardinal, And born above the heads of all, The gentle shepherd of the fold. O joy to see before I die The only God-annointed king, And hear the silver trumpet's ring A triumph as he passes by. Or at the altar of the shrine Holds high the mystic sacrifice, And shows a god to human eyes From the dead fruit of corn and wine. Four. For, lo, what changes time can bring The cycles of revolving years May free my heart from all its foes. And teach my lips a song to sing. Before yon troubled sea of gold, The reapers garner into sheaves, Or in the autumn's scarlet leaves Flutter as birds are down the wold. I shall have run the glorious race And caught the torch while yet aflame, And called upon the holy name Of him who now doth hide his face. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Tremble's not exquisite like limbs, Knifes ewed, rolling and rolling there, Where God seems not to care. Till the fierce loft they bear Crumps them in death's extreme decryptitude. Your voice sings not so soft, Though, even as wind murmuring through raftered, Loved, your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and the evening clear, As there's him none, now here. Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths At coughed heart, you were never hot, Nor large nor full like hearts made great with shot, And though your hand be paler, Or all which trail your cross to reclaim and hail, Weep you may weep, for you may touch them not. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Would I write a rhyme Of the buzz that never blow In the summertime? Would I sing of golden seeds Springing up in iron wreaths And of raindrops turned to snow If I knew what poets know? Did I know what poets do? Would I sing a song Settered in the pigeon's cool When the days are long? Where I found a heart in pain I would make a clutter game And the false should be the true Did I know what poets do? If I knew what poets know, I would find a teen Sweeter than the placid flow Of the various dream. I would sing of love that lives On the errors it forgives And the world would better grow If I knew what poets know. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Grease. The ripple of the water on the side The ripple of girls laughter at the stern The only sounds When gan the west to burn And a red sun upon the seas to ride I stood upon the soil of grease at last. Cater colo. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Between September 26, 1777 and June 17, 1778, the heroine's name was Mary Redmond, and she lived in Philadelphia. During the occupation of that town by the British, she was ever ready to aid in the secret delivery of the letters written home by the husbands and fathers fighting in the continental army. A boy drove into the city. His wagon loaded down with food to feed the people of the British governed town. And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly, was watching for his coming from the corner of her eye. His face looked broad and honest. His hands were brown and tough. The clothes he wore upon him were home-spun course and rough. But one there was who watched him, who long time lingered nigh, and cast at him sweet glances from the corner of her eye. He drove up to the market. He waited in the line. His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine, but long and long he waited, and no one came to buy, saved the little black-eyed rebel watching from the corner of her eye. Now who will buy my apples, he shouted long and loud, and who wants my potatoes, he repeated to the crowd. But from all the people round him came no word of a reply, saved the black-eyed rebel answering from the corner of her eye. For she knew that, neath the lining of the coat he wore that day, were long letters from the husbands and the fathers far away, who were fighting for the freedom that they meant to gain or die, and a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. But the treasures how to get them crept the question through her mind, since keen enemies were watching for what prizes they might find, and she paused a while and pondered with a pretty little sigh. Then resolve crept through her features and a shrewdness fired her eye, so she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and red, may I have a dozen apples for a kiss, she sweetly said, and the brown face flushed to scarlet for the boy was somewhat shy, and he saw her laughing at him from the corner of her eye. You may have them all for nothing and more if you want, quote he. I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for them, said she. And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who all were by, with a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of her eye. Clinging round his brawny neck she clasped her fingers white and small, and then whispered quick the letters, thrust them underneath my shawl, carry back again this package, and be sure that you are spry. And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner of her eye. Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, un-girlish freak, and the boy was scared and panting and so dashed he could not speak. And, miss, I have good apples of older lad did cry, but she answered, No, I thank you from the corner of her eye. With the news of loved ones absent to the dear friends they would greet, searching them who hungered for them, swift she glided through the street. There is nothing worth the doing that it does not pay to try, thought the little black-eyed rebel with a twinkle in her eye. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The lover complaineth the unkindness of his love, by Thomas Wyatt, read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon. My lute awake. Perform the last labor that thou and I shall waste, and end to that I have now begun. And when this song is sung in past, my lute be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none, as lead to grave in marble stone, my song may pierce her heart as soon. Should we then sigh or sing or moan? No, no, my lute, for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly repulse the waves continually, as she my suit in affection, so that I am past remedy, whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got of simple hearts through love shot, by whom unkind thou hast them won. Think not he hath his bow forgot, although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, that makest but game on earnest pain. Think not alone under the sun, unquit to cause thy lovers plain, although my lute and I have done. May chance thee, thy withered and old, in winter nights that are so cold, planing in vain unto the moon, thy wishes then dare not be told. Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent the time that thou hast lost and spent, to cause thy lovers sigh and swoon. Then shout thou no beauty but lent, and wish and want as I have done. Now cease my lute, this is the last labor, that thou and I shall waste, and end it is that we begun. Now is this song both sung and past, my lute be still, for I have done. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Mermaid's Song by Anne Hunter Read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist Now the dancing sunbeams play on the green and glassy sea. Come, and I will lead the way, where the pearly treasures be. Come with me, and we will go, where the rocks of coral grow. Follow, follow, follow me. Behold what treasures lie deep below the rolling waves. Riches hid from human eye, dimly shine in oceans' caves. Stormy winds are far away, having tides broke no delay. Follow, follow, follow me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nightfall by Samuel Waddington Read for LibriVox.org by Colleen McMahon The shades of evening lengthen. Let us close the latest window and draw down the blind. These shadows seem as spirits, and the wind moans in its wandering. Mournfully it goes, as some poor soul that grievous sorrow knows, or homeward traveler fearful lest he find, beside his hearth, the doom that haunts his mind. And or his pathways grim visage shows. As haunted houses are our haunted hearts, we're in pale spirits of past sorrows dwell. We're in, as players that play many parts, pre-sentiments their tragic tales foretell. Draw close the curtain. I shut out the night. The night is dark. Let love then be our light. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Not Want to Spare by Anonymous Read for LibriVox.org by Anita Slomo Martinez Which shall it be? Which shall it be? I looked at John. John looked at me. Dear patient John, who loves me yet, as well as though my locks were jet. And when I found that I must speak, my voice seemed strangely low and weak. Tell me again what Robert said. And then I, listening, bent my head. This is his letter. I will give a house and land while you shall live, if, in return, from out your seven, one child to me for I is given. I looked at John's old garments worn. I thought of all that John had borne, of poverty, and work, and care, which I the willing could not share. I thought of seven mouths to feed, of seven little children's needs. And then of this, come, John, said I, we'll choose among them as they lie asleep. So walking hand in hand, dear John and I surveyed our band, first to the cradle lightly stepped, where Lillian the baby slept. A glory against the pillow white, softly the father stooped to lay his rough hand down in a gentle way. When dream or whisper made her stir, and huskily he said, not her, not her. We stopped beside the trundle bed, and one long ray of lamplight shed a thwart to the boyish faces there, in sleep so pitiful and fair. I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek a tear undried. Air John could speak, he's but a baby too, said I, and kissed him as we hurried by. Pay a patient Robbie's angel face, still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. No, for a thousand crowns, not him, he whispered while our eyes were dim. Poor dick, bad dick, our wayward son, turbulent, reckless, idle one, could he be spared? Nay, he who gave, bid us befriend him to his grave. Only a mother's heart can be patient enough for such as he. And so, said John, I would not dare to send him from our bedside prayer. Then stole we softly up above and knelt by Mary, child of love. Perhaps for her it would better be, I said to John. Quite silently he lifted up a curl that lay across her cheek in wilful way, and shook his head, nay, love, not thee. The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad, trusty and truthful, good and glad, so like his father. No, John, no, I cannot, will not let him go. And so we wrote in courteous way, we could not drive one child away, and afterward toil lighter seemed, thinking of that of which we dreamed, happy in truth that not one face was missed from its accustomed place, thankful to work for all the seven, trusting the rest to one in heaven. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. November by Sarah Teasdale Read for LibriVox.org by Mike Overby, Midland Washington. The world is tired, the year is old, the little leaves are glad to die, the wind goes shivering with cold among the rushes dry, our love is dying like the grass, and we who kissed grow coldly kind, half glad to see our poor love's pass like leaves along the wind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Poppy by Ludwig Ueland 1787 to 1862 Read for LibriVox.org Behold how rocked by zephyrs the poppy's blossom gleams, the flower that best adorneth the slumberous god of dreams. Here's Scarlet like the cloud banks, which sunset renders bright, there pale and white and ghostly as neath the moonbeams light. I've heard men say in warning, should one mid-poppy sleep, his senses soon are buried in heavy dreams and deep. Awakening he retaineth this fancy strange and dim, that all things true or lovely, but shadows are to him. In lifetimes early morning I too once rested there, by flower-ets hidden holy in a valley bright and fair. So drowsy seemed their odor, that ere I felt aware, my life became a picture, its truth but dreams and air. Since then the power hath lasted all things as then to view, the world but seems a picture, and only dreams are true. The shadows round me flitting, distinct as stars I trace. O poppy, flower of poets, my head for ever grace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Over the hills of memory, and the seas of long ago, a princess dwells in a lone land, where quiet fountains flow. A princess dwells in a grey land, where harsh winds never blow, over the seas of memory, in a kingdom of long ago. There is peace in the quiet morning, there is ease in the restful noon, there is calm in the placid starlight, and the magic of the moon, and ever a princess wanders by poppy paths and sweet. Dim lilies sway to her girdle, dream violets kiss her feet. Her hair is crowned with the dawning, her arms unfold the day, but the secret of the moonlight dwells in her eyes for a. Her soul is a sacred garden, where mystical flowers apprise, the violets of eternity, and the lilies of paradise. Princess, our barks will never sail, our eyes will never know the glory of your loveliness in the land where the fair winds blow, but ever you rule with a deathless love, while the years drift to and fro, over the seas of memory, in your kingdom of long ago. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Here the rain, or give it thanks for washing me cleaner than I have been since I was born into this solitude. Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon. But here I pray that none whom once I loved is dying tonight, or lying still awake, solitary, listening to the rain, either in pain, or thus in sympathy, helpless among the living and the dead, like a cold water among broken reeds, myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff, like me who have no love which this wild rain has not dissolved, except the love of death. If love it be towards what is perfect and cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Reasons Voice. By Percy Bish Shelley. From Queen Mab. Read for LibriVox.org. And when reasons voice, loud as the voice of nature, shall have waked the nations, and mankind perceive that vice is discord, war, and misery, that virtuous peace and happiness and harmony, when man's mature nature shall disdain the playthings of its childhood, kingly glare will lose its power to dozzle, its authority will silently pass by, the gorgeous throne will stand unnoticed in the regal hall, fast falling to decay, whilst falsehood's trade shall be as hateful and unprofitable as that of truth is now. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Rounderlay. By Anne Hunter. Read for LibriVox.org. By Newgate Novelist. Forget, forget the playful time. Let every trace be done away, when I, with many an idle rhyme, was wont to waste the summer's day. Then hope was new, and love was young, and fancy on her poet smiled, and as my Rounderlay I sung, the cares of life my song beguiled. Now hope is fled, the heart grows cold, and fancy wears a cypress crown. The Rounderlay grows dull and old, and all the gay delights are flown. Forget, forget the playful time. Let every trace be done away, when I, with many an idle rhyme, was wont to waste the summer's day. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Scaped. By Stephen Crane. Read for LibriVox.org. By Winston Tharp. Once I knew a fine song. It is true, believe me. It was all of birds, and I held them in a basket. When I opened the wicket, heavens, they all flew away. I cried, Come back, little thoughts! But they only laughed. They flew on, until they were as sand thrown between me and the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Settler. By Alfred Billing Street. Read for LibriVox.org. By Phil Shempf. His echoing acts the settler swung amid the sea-like solitude, and rushing, thundering, downward-flung the titans of the wood. Loud shriek the eagle as he dashed, from out his mossy nest, which crashed with its supporting bow, and the first sunlight, leaping, flashed on the wolf's haunt below. Rude was the garb, and strung the frame of him who plied his ceaseless toil. To form that garb, the wild wood game contributed their spoil. The soul that warmed that frame, disdained the tinsel god and glare, that reigned where men their crowds collect, the simple fur untrimmed, unstained, this forest tamer-decked. The paths which wound mid-gorgeous trees, the streams whose bright lips kissed their flowers, the winds that swelled their harmonies through those sun-hiding bowers. The temple vast, the green arcade, the nestling veil, the grassy glade, dark cave and swampy lair. These scenes and sounds majestic made his world and pleasures there. His roof adorned a lovely spot, mid the black logs, green glowed the grain. The herbs and plants the woods knew not, throve in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curled in o'er the dell, the low, the bleat, the tinkling bell, all made a landscape strange, which was the living chronicle of deeds that wrought the change. The violet sprung at spring's first tinge, the rose of summer spread its glow. The maze hung on its autumn fringe, rude winter brought its snow, and still the settler labored there. His shout and whistle woke the air. As cheerily he plied his garden spade, or drove his share along the hillock side. He marked the firestorm's blazing flood, roaring and crackling on its path, and scorching earth and melting wood beneath its greedy wrath. He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, trampling the pine tree with its foot, and darkening thick the day, with streaming bow and severed root hurled whizzing on its way. His gontown yelled, his rifle flashed, the grim bear hushed its savage growl. In blood and foam the panther gnashed, its fangs with dying howl. The fleet, dear, ceased its flying bound, its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, and with its moaning cry, the beaver sank beneath the wound, its pond built Venice by. Humble the lot, yet his the race, when liberty sent forth her cry, who thronged in conflicts deadliest place, to fight, to bleed, to die, who cumbered bunkers height of red, by hope through weary years were led, and witnessed Yorktown's sun blaze on a nation's banner spread, a nation's freedom won. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Smithy by Alfred Billing Street, read for LibriVox.org by Phil Schimpf. There was a little Smithy at the corner of the road, in the village where, when life shone fresh and bright was my abode. A little slab-roofed Smithy, of a stained and dusky red, an ox frame standing by the door, and at one side a shed. The road was lone and pleasant, with margins grassy green, where browsing cows and nibbling geese from morning till night were seen. I curled the smoke from the humble roof with Donning's earliest bird. And the tinkle of the anvil, first of the village sounds, was heard. The bellows puff, the hammer-beat, the whistle and the song, told steadfastly and merrily, toil rolled the hours along, till darkness fell, and the Smithy then, with its forges clear deep light, through chimney window door and cleft, poured blushes on the night. The morning shows its azure breast and scarf of silvery fleece. The margin grass is grouped with cows and spotted ore with geese. On the dew-wet green by the Smithy, there's a circle of crackling fire. Hurrah! how it blazes and curls around the cold man's welded tire, while Oret, with tongs, are the Smith and his man to fit it when cherry-red to the tilted wheel of the huge grime-d'arc in the background of the shed. There's a stony field on the ridge to plow, and brindle must be shod, and at noon through the lane from the farmhouse I see him slowly plod. In the strong frame, chewing his cud, he patiently stands, but see, the bands have been placed around him, he struggles to be free. But John and Timothy hammer away, until each hoof is armed. Then loosened, brindle looks around, as if wondering he's unharmed. Joe Mattson's horse wants shooing, and at even tide he's seen, an old gray sluggish creature with his master on the green. Within the little Smithy, old Dobbin Mattson draws. There John is busily twisting screws and Timothy filing saws. The bellows sleeps, the forges cold, and twilight dims the room, with anvil chain and iron bar, faint glimmering through the gloom. I stand beside the threshold and gaze upon the sight, the doubtful shape of the old gray horse and the points of glancing light. But hark, the bellows wakens, out dance the sparks in air, and now the forges raked up high, now burst it to a glare. How brightly and how cheerily the sudden glow outbreaks, and what a charming picture of the humble room it makes. It glints upon the horseshoes, on the ceiling rafters hung. On the anvil and the leaning sledge its quivering gleams are flung. It touches with bronze the Smith and his man, it bathes old dozing gray, and a blushed is fixed on Mattson's face in the broad and steady ray. One moment more, and the iron is whirled with fierce and spattering glow, and swank, swank, swank, rings the sledge's smite, tink, tink, the hammers blow. Whoa, Dobbin says, Tim, as he pairs the hook, whoa, whoa, as he fits the shoe, and the click of the driving nails is heard till the humble toil is through. Pleased Mattson mounts his old gray steed, and I hear the heavy beat of the trotting hoofs up the corner-road till the sounds in the distance fleet, and I depart with grateful joy to the king of earth and heaven, that e'en to life in its lowliest place such interest should be given. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. Snow Scene and Starlight by William Force Stand Read for LibraVox.org by Larry Wilson To Edmund Blunden Evening aloft in odd expectancy waited the starry advent, and the world they white before us, winter white, and blue with earliest drift of twilight, keenly rose cool exhalations, biting spice of snow. Out of the muffled meadows where we walked, as one who traveling the vague lanes of sleep feels that he walks, yet hears no footstep fall. An evening closed, her shadows flake on flake descending, dimmed the recent high-line, and crystal lapsed to pallid glimmering, the power pale to Ashen. Nearer day yielded to that remote redon which comes, pricking the night with splinted rays, when shoot thick in leafless elm tops crowding the oaks, whiter than windflowers in the woods of spring, those brighter stars of the hard-freezing skies. No sound there was, nor any wind came down, molesting those reposeful snow-sown fields. No wind, no sound, but on an every-world vast width of calm. And then a darkness cut across the white, and on the darkness gleamed stars, and we stood by the slow river-flood, into the tight and silent stola sound that made the silence tingle, and we knew the clicking and the chipping spake of frost, linking his icy aisles against the brink. We paused to see the brimming darkness flow. Beyond it, on the farther side, three elms rose into night, and their long downward bows swayed to their shadows on the star-bright wave. And all around them and beyond them, far away to the horizon, wintry fields swept outward, shading to the darker zone where earth's extremity seems on the verge of that immensity which lies beyond. But midway in the frosty solitude, and single in those miles of drifted snow, the hearth-lit window of a home unknown flickered afar, a point of trembling light. Less than the stars, yet more than they, for it looked out across the bleak white lowliness, instinct with kinship, calling up in his communion with the frail humanity, there cherishing the sacraments of life. And deeply we were drawn to them, and knew that family, marvellous in their hopes and fears, responding hearts and thinking minds, but set under tremendous heights of mystery, where all around them and beyond them, far away to the horizon, the cold fields suffered the hard gaze of blind, staring eyes, the unresponding and unthinking stars. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. The Song of the Wandering Lady, by Anne Hunter, read for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. Founded on a true story. Through dreary wilds forlorn I go, when loud the storms of winter blow. On me they waste their rage in vain, for I can feel no joy nor pain. My sheep, companions kind and true, yes, I can feel a pang for you. Come gather round, and I will keep the watch and sing while you shall sleep. Ah, these were once my lover's care, of all the flock he held them dear. With me they left their native fold, and braved the winds of winter cold. They follow where so ere I lead, and while I sit and see them feed, me thinks the sunny day's return, ere yet my heart had learnt to mourn. To mourn a father's cruel pride, by whose rash hand my lover died, oh, cruel, cruel was the deed, that caused so kind a heart to bleed. O youth beloved, thy voice no more can peace to my sad soul restore. To seek thy native hills I fly, where thou were't born I go to die. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. My dear sir, there lies a veil in Ida, lovelier than all the valleys of Ionian hills. I take it that this is a geographical fact, anyway it is Tennyson, and I quote it in order that you may perceive that I have some acquaintance with the higher walks of literature, and am therefore a man of entirely different build from yourself. I was born a poet, and have stuck to my trade unto this last. Possibly you were born a bookseller. I am willing to give your credit for it, but I doubt it all the same, for I often think the average bookseller must have been born a draper. The other day I had occasion to do a little book buying. It was my first assay in what I now believe to be an altogether elegant and delightful form of intellectual recreation. Of course I went into a shop. From the yawning samurianity at the back of that shop there came unto me swiftly and in large boots of fat youth. He bowed, and he bowed, and he bowed. I want a good addition of Shelly, I said, and he replied straightway, nine-pen shelling net, one-and-six-pence net, half a crown net, two-and-eight-pence, three-and-nine-pence, five shelling net, half a guinea, and kindly step this way. I said, thank you, but I want Shelly, not egg-wisks, whereat he smiled and banged under my nose a heavy volume, bound like a cheap purse, and murmured, there you are, the best line in the market, two-and-eight. And because I opened it and looked disconsolately at the stodgy running titles and the entrancing red-line border, he cast upon me eyes of contempt and disgust, and told me that I could not expect Calmscott Press and Tree-Calf at the money. In fact, that fat youth annoyed me. He was a bookseller. Ah, my dear sir, when I reflect that whatever I may write, no matter how excellent it may be, must ultimately pass into the hands of that fat youth, and become to him something at nine-pence a shelling net, eighteen-pence two-and-six-net, three-and-nine, five shelling net, or half a guinea, and kindly step this way, the spirit of my father's quails within me. I know that authorship is a trade for fools. Go to nine-pence me, no nine-pences, two-and-six-pence me, no nets. Bring yourself at once to your logical conclusion, and next time I call upon you for Shelly, sell him to me, as you appear to sell temporal power by the pound ever deploys. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I'll think of thee, my own, dear one, as Morn's first blushing ray diffuses light, or the dim earth turns darkness into day. I'll think of thee at eve, my love, when moon and star appear, when in the horizon of my hope all, all is bright and clear. I'll think of thee when joy doth cast its gladness o'er my heart, as peace and love and happiness seem new life to impart. I'll think of thee when dark shades fall, a thwart my fevered brow, when low in death I hear thee lisp, I'm waiting for thee now. I'll think of thee, my darling one, while I have life and breath, and seal the assurance fervently. I'll think of thee in death. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. them. When blue wisteria hangs its head and yuki leans above it, the swallow flits discomforted with none to see or love it. When lotus blossoms open wide and beckon mended dreaming, my yuki smiles, and all their pride is but a perfumed seeming. When snow is white on moat and tree and crusts each bamboo feather, my yuki lifts her eyes to me. This is all I know of weather. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.