The Old Man's Funeral

By William Cullen Bryant

I saw an aged man upon his bier,
    His hair was thin and white, and on his brow
A record of the cares of many a year;—
    Cares that were ended and forgotten now.
And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,
And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.

A Legend of Madrid

By Adam Lindsay Gordon

[Translated from the Spanish]

  Francesca.

Crush'd and throng'd are all the places
In our amphitheatre,
'Midst a sea of swarming faces
I can yet distinguish her;
Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina?
Is my secret known to thee?
On the sands of yon arena
I shall yet my vengeance see.
Now through portals fast careering
Picadors are disappearing;
Now the barriers nimbly clearing
Has the hindmost chulo flown.
Clots of dusky crimson streaking,
Brindled flanks and haunches reeking,
Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking,
On the matador alone.
Features by sombrero shaded,
Pale and passionless and cold;
Doublet richly laced and braided,
Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold,
Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,—
Mask more subtle, and disguise
Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh,
Traitor, to deceive my eyes.
Shouts of noisy acclamation,
Breathing savage expectation,
Greet him while he takes his station
Leisurely, disdaining haste;
Now he doffs his tall sombrero,
Fools! applaud your butcher hero,
Ye would idolise a Nero,
Pandering to public taste.

A Visit From The Sea

By Robert Louis Stevenson

Far from the loud sea beaches
   Where he goes fishing and crying,
Here in the inland garden
   Why is the sea-gull flying?

Let Me Sing Of What I Know

By William Allingham

A wild west Coast, a little Town,
Where little Folk go up and down,
Tides flow and winds blow:

Dispraise Of A Courtly Life

By Sir Philip Sidney

Walking in bright Phœbus’ blaze,
Where with heat oppressed I was,
I got to a shady wood,
Where green leaves did newly bud;
And of grass was plenty dwelling,
Decked with pied flowers sweetly smelling.

Wolf and Hound

By Adam Lindsay Gordon

    "The hills like giants at a hunting lay
    Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay."—Browning.

    You'll take my tale with a little salt,
    But it needs none, nevertheless,

On Lyric Poetry

By Mark Akenside

 I.—1.

  Once more I join the Thespian choir,
  And taste the inspiring fount again:
  O parent of the Grecian lyre,
  Admit me to thy powerful strain—
  And lo, with ease my step invades
  The pathless vale and opening shades,
  Till now I spy her verdant seat;
  And now at large I drink the sound,
  While these her offspring, listening round.
  By turns her melody repeat.