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How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden?
And pulped oozes
With hair that musters
In globèd clusters, In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden; With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies,
Like velvet pansies
Where through escapes The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies; With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes
Of the feet whereunto it falleth down,
Thy naked feet unsandalled;
Feet where the red
Is meshed in the brown, Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail. FRANCIS THOMPSON-A Corymbus for Autumn.
This avarice Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
Macbeth. Act IV. Sc. 3. L. 84.
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.
THOMSON-Seasons. Autumn. L. 1.
We lack but open eye and ear
(See also E. B. BROWNING)
AVARICE So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. BYRON—Don Juan. Canto I. St. 216.
(See also MIDDLETON)
With ridiculous and awkward action,
Troilus and Cressida. Act I, Sc. 3. L. 149.
Avaritiam si tollere vultis, mater ejus est tollenda, luxuries.
If you wish to remove avarice you must remove its mother, luxury. CICERODe Oratore. II. 40.
Ac primam scelerum matrem, quæ semper ha
bendo Plus sitiens patulis rimatur faucibus aurum, Trudis Avaritiam.
Expel avarice, the mother of all wickedness, who, always thirsty for more, opens wide her jaws for gold. CLAUDIANUS—De Laudibus Stilichonis. II.
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those. The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.
BURNS—The Banks of Ayr.
Rhododendron And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red. DORA READ GOODALE-Spring Scatters Far
and Wide. 20 The fair azalea bows Beneath its snowy crest.
SARAH H. WAITMAN—She Blooms no More.
Crescit amor nummi quantum ipsa pecunia crescit.
The love of pelf increases with the pelf. JUVENAL—Satires. XIV. 139.
And moor herself within my room
My daughter! O my daughter!
G. W. CABLE—The New Arrival.
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; T. B. ALDRICH-Baby Bell.
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; 2
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Oh those little, those little blue shoes!
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes. Those shoes that no little feet use.
CAMPBELL—Pleasures of Hope. Pt. I. L. 225. Oh, the price were high That those shoes would buy,
He is so little to be so large! Those little blue unused shoes!
Why, a train of cars, or a whale-back barge WILLIAM C. BENNETT—Baby's Shoes.
Couldn't carry the freight
Of the monstrous weight Lullaby, baby, upon the tree top;
Of all of his qualities, good and great. When the wind blows the cradle will rock, And tho' one view is as good as another, When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, Don't take my word for it. Ask his mother! And down comes the baby, and cradle and all. EDMUND VANCE COOKE—The Intruder. Said to be “first poem produced on American
soil.” Author a Pilgrim youth who came “The hand that rocks the cradle”—but there is over on the Mayflower. See Book Lover, no such hand. Feb., 1904.
It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us
understand; Rock-bye baby on the tree top,
So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
days, When the bough bends the cradle will fall, When mothers reared their children in unscienDown comes the baby, cradle and all. Old nursery rhyme, attributed in this form to When they jounced them and they bounced CHARLES DUPEE BLAKE.
them, those poor dwarfs of long ago
The Washingtons and Jeffersons and Adamses, Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace,
Ascribed to BISHOP DOANE–What Might Secret joys and secret smiles,
Have Been. A complaint that for hygienic Little pretty infant wiles.
reasons, he was not allowed to play with WILLIAM BLAKE-A Cradle Song.
his grandchild in the old-fashioned way.
(See also WALLACE under MOTHERHOOD) How lovely he appears! his little cheeks In their pure incarnation, vying with
When you fold your hands, Baby Louise! The rose leaves strewn beneath them.
Your hands like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, And his lips, too,
With a pretty, innocent, saintlike air, How beautifully parted! No; you shall not Are you trying to think of some angel-taught Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon prayer His hour of midday rest is nearly over.
You learned above, Baby Louise. BYRON—Cain. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 14.
MARGARET EYTINGE-Baby Louise. He smiles, and sleeps!—sleep on
Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing.
RICHARD GALL-Cradle Song.
The morning that my baby came
They found a baby swallow dead, And innocent!
And saw a something hard to name BYRON—Cain. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 24.
Fly mothlike over baby's bed.
RALPH HODGSON—The Swallow.
And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, BYRON—Cain. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 171.
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx! There came to port last Sunday night
J. G. HOLLAND-Bitter-Sweet. First MoveThe queerest little craft,
ment. L. 6. Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked—and laughed.
When the baby died, It seemed so curious that she
On every side Should cross the unknown water,
Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud.
The baby was not wrapped in any shroud.
Her misery. HELEN HUNT JACKSON—When the Baby Died.
Sweet is the infant's waking smile,
And sweet the old man's rest-
No soothing calm is blest.
James. St. 3.
Where did you come from, baby dear?
of The North Wind." Ch. XXXIII.
And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
GERALD MASSEY-Babe Christabel.
Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giv
ing: Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by
wasting! Black manhood comes when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. CHARLES LAMB—The Gypsy's Malison. Son
net in Letter to Mrs. Procter, Jan. 29, 1829. 3 The hair she means to have is gold, Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks old,
Plump are her fists and pinky.
I call her “Little Dinky."
FRED. LOCKER-LAMPSON—The Old Cradle.
LONGFELLOW—To a Child.
7 Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;
Oh! bless'd be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with
The North Wind." Ch. XXXIII.
God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed: An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
Romeo and Juliet. Act I. Sc. 3. L. 59.
Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love
the ballads, he need not care who should make Sweetest li'l' feller, everybody knows;
the laws of a nation. Dunno what to call him, but he's mighty lak' a ANDREW FLETCHER—Quoting the EARL OF rose;
CROMARTY. Letters to the Marquis of MontLookin' at his mammy wid eyes so shiny blue
In FLETCHER'S Works. P. 266. Mek' you think that Heav'n is comin' clost ter (Ed. 1749)
you. FRANK L. STANTON–Mighty Lak' a Rose.
Some people resemble ballads which are
only sung for a certain time. A little soul scarce fledged for earth
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD-Maxims. No. 220. Takes wing with heaven again for goal, Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
I have a passion for ballads. * They A little soul.
are the gypsy children of song, born under SWINBURNE—A Baby's Death.
green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and by3
paths of literature, -in the genial Summertime. But what am I?
LONGFELLOW—Hyperion. Bk. II. Ch. II. An infant crying in the night:
14 An infant crying for the light:
For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in. And with no language but a cry.
SAMUEL LOVER-Paddy Blake's Echo. TENNYSON-In Memoriam. Pt. LIV. St. 5. (See also BURTON, under BIRTH; CROUCH, under
More solid things do not show the complexion DEATH; also KING LEAR, SAXE, under LIFE)
of the times so well as Ballads and Libels.
JOHN SELDON-Libels. (Libels-pamphlets, Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat!
libellum, a small book.) Beat upon mine! you are mine, my sweet! All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet,
I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew! My sweet!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers. TENNYSON-Romney's Remorse.
Henry IV. Pt. I. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 129.
I love a ballad but even too well; if it be Baby smiled, mother wailed, Earthward while the sweetling sailed;
doleful matter, merrily set down, or a very
pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably. Mother smiled, baby wailed, When to earth came Viola.
Winter's Tale. Act IV. Sc. 4. L. 187.
A famous man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy. A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure.
WORDSWORTH—Rob Roy's Grave. TUPPER-Of Education.
BANISHMENT Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
The world was all before them, where to choose Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide; Gently falling on thy head.
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and
slow, WATTS--A Cradle Hymn.
Through Eden took their solitary way.
MILTON—Paradise Lost. Bk. XII. L. 646. BALLADS I've now got the music book ready,
Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that
Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all Do sit up and sing like a lady A recitative from Tancredi,
From twelve to seventy; and pouring war And something about “Palpiti!”
Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Sing forte when first you begin it,
Like a bold flood o'erbear.
Coriolanus. Act IV. Sc. 5. L. 133.
No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish BarTHOMAS HAYNES BAYLY—Don't Sing English dolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack FalBallads to Me.
staff, 'kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff,
valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair
being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack and And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,
banish all the world. That wholly consisted of lines like these.
Henry IV. Pt. I. Act II. Sc. 4. L. 520. CHARLES S. CALVERLY-Ballad.
Have stooped my neck under your injuries
And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds, Thespis, the first professor of our art,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment. At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.
Richard II. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 19.
* if a man were permitted to make all Howlings attend it: How bast thou the heart,