Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Index to First Lines

He went into the bush, and passed

He who but yesterday would roam

He who died at Azan sends

He wrought at one great work for years

High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal

High grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky

High on a leaf-carv’d ancient oaken chair

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind

His life was private; safely led, aloof

Hist, hist, ye winds, ye whispering wavelets hist

Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin

Ho, Sailor of the sea!

How like her! But ’t is she herself

How like the leper, with his own sad cry

How little fades from earth when sink to rest

How long, O lion, hast thou fleshless lain?

How many colors here do we see set

How many? said our good Captain

How many summers, love

How many verses have I thrown

How oft I ’ve watch’d thee from the garden croft

How slowly creeps the hand of Time

How steadfastly she worked at it!

How strange it is that, in the after age

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon!

How the leaves sing to the wind!

How would the centuries long asunder

I am lying in the tomb, love

I am Miss Catherine’s book

I am no gentleman, not I!

I am that which began

I am the spirit astir

I bend above the moving stream

I bloom but once, and then I perish

I came in light that I might behold

I cannot forget my Joe

I cannot sing to thee as I would sing

I charge you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the dove

I come from nothing; but from where

I come to visit thee agen

I come your sin-rid souls to shrive

I dance and dance! Another faun

I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be

I do not dread an alter’d heart

I dream’d I saw a little brook

I dream’d that I woke from a dream

I drew it from its china tomb

If a leaf rustled, she would start

If all the harm that women have done

If all the world were right

If I could paint you, friend, as you stand there

If I could trust mine own self with your fate

If I desire with pleasant songs

If I forswear the art divine

If in the years that come such thing should be

If it were only a dream

If love were what the rose is

If not now soft airs may blow

If one could have that little head of hers!

If only a single rose is left

If only in dreams may man be fully blest

I found a flower in a desolate plot

I found him openly wearing her token

If she be made of white and red

If she but knew that I am weeping

If the butterfly courted the bee

If there be any one can take my place

If there were dreams to sell

If thou wilt ease thine heart

If Transmigration e’er compel

If you be that May Margaret

I gave my life for thee

I give my soldier-boy a blade

I Had a true-love, none so dear

I have a strain of a departed bard

I have been here before

I have lov’d flowers that fade

I have stay’d too long from your grave, it seems

I have subdued at last the will to live

I have two sons, wife

I have wept a million tears

I heard last night a little child so singing

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night

I heard the voice of Jesus say

I hear the bells at eventide

I hear the low wind wash the softening snow

I held her hand, the pledge of bliss

Iits edges foamed with amethyst and rose

I know not how to call you light

I know not of what we ponder’d

I know that these poor rags of womanhood

I learn’d his greatness first at Lavington

I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more

I like the hunting of the hare

I listen’d to the music broad and deep

I lov’d him not; and yet now he is gone

I love my Lady; she is very fair

I ’m a bird that ’s free

I ’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland

In after days when grasses high

In Carnival we were, and supp’d that night

In Childhood’s unsuspicious hours

In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships

I never look’d that he should live so long

In green old gardens, hidden away

In his own image the Creator made

In mid whirl of the dance of Time ye start

In praise of little children I will say

In ruling well what guerdon? Life runs low

In silence, and at night, the Conscience feels

In summer, when the days were long

In sunny girlhood’s vernal life

In teacup-times! The style of dress

In the early morning-shine

In the earth—the earth—thou shalt be laid

In the golden morning of the world

In the heart of the white summer mist lay a green little piece of the world

In the high turret chamber sat the sage

In these restrained and careful times

In the still air the music lies unheard

In the white-flower’d hawthorn brake

In the wild autumn weather, when the rain was on the sea

In this May-month, by grace

In thy white bosom Love is laid

In torrid heats of late July

Into the Devil tavern

I rested on the breezy height

I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow

I sat at Berne, and watched the chain

I sat beside the streamlet

I sat unsphering Plato ere I slept

I sat upon a windy mountain height

I sat with Doris, the shepherd-maiden

I saw a new world in my dream

I saw a poor old woman on the bench

I saw in dreams a mighty multitude

I saw, I saw the lovely child

I Saw old Autumn in the misty morn

I saw old Time, destroyer of mankind

I saw Time in his workshop carving faces

I see him sit, wild-eyed, alone

I see thee pine like her in golden story

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart

I sit beside my darling’s grave

Is it not better at an early hour

Is n’t this Joseph’s son?

I sought to hold her, but within her eyes

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he

Is this the man by whose decree abide

I still keep open Memory’s chamber: still

I stood to hear that bold

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife

Italia, mother of the souls of men

It hardly seems that he is dead

I think a stormless night-time shall ensue

I think on thee in the night

I thought it was the little bed

I thought of death beside the lonely sea

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

It is buried and done with

It is the season now to go

It little profits that an idle king

It may be we shall know in the hereafter

It once might have been, once only

I too remember, in the after years

Its masts of might, its sails so free

It was a day of sun and rain

It was her first sweet child, her heart’s delight

It was not in the winter

It was the calm and silent night!

I ’ve taught thee Love’s sweet lesson o’er

I, Virgin of the Snows, have liv’d

I wadna gi’e my ain wife

I wander’d by the brook-side

I was an English shell

I was a wandering sheep

I watch’d her as she stoop’d to pluck

I went a roaming through the woods alone

I will not have the mad Clytie

I will not let thee go

I will not rail, or grieve when torpid eld

I worship thee, sweet will of God!

I would I had thy courage, dear, to face

I would not, could I, make thy life as mine

I would not give my Irish wife

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea

I write. He sits beside my chair

I write. My mother was a Florentine

I wrought them like a targe of hammered gold

Jesus, I my cross have taken

Just as I am, without one plea

Just for a handful of silver he left us

Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?

Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking

Keen was the air, the sky was very light

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King

King Charles, and who ’ll do him right now?

Lady Alice, Lady Louise

Lady and gentlemen fays, come buy!

Lady Anne Dewhurst on a crimson couch

Last April, when the winds had lost their chill

Last night, among his fellow roughs

Last night the nightingale waked me

Lay me low, my work is done

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom

Lead us, heavenly Father, lead us

Leave me a little while alone

Let me at last be laid

Let me be with thee where thou art

Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap!

Life and Thought have gone away

Life’s not our own,—’t is but a loan

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet

Light words they were, and lightly, falsely said

Like a huge Python, winding round and round

Like a musician that with flying finger

Like crown’d athlete that in a race has run

Like souls that balance joy and pain

Lily on liquid roses floating

Little harp, at thy cry

Little Lettice is dead, they say

Lo, as some bard on isles of the Aegean

Lo, I am weary of all

Long ago, on a bright spring day

Long night succeeds thy little day

Long years their cabin stood

Look at me with thy large brown eyes

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been

Lord Cæsar, when you sternly wrote

Lord, for to-morrow and its needs

Lord, in thy name thy servants plead

Loud roared the tempest

Love, by that loosened hair

Love held a harp between his hands, and, lo!

Love in my heart: oh, heart of me, heart of me!

Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay!

Love’s priestess, mad with pain and joy of song

Love took my life and thrill’d it

Love we the warmth and light of tropic lands

Lo, what a golden day it is!

Lo! where the four mimosas blend their shade

Low, like another’s, lies the laurelled head

Maidens, kilt your skirts and go

Make me over, mother April

Make thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair

Make way, my lords! for Death now once again

Man is permitted much

Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanish’d face

Many love music but for music’s sake

Marian Drury, Marian Drury

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning

Melpomene among her livid people

Methinks the soul within the body held

Methought, as I beheld the rookery pass

Methought the stars were blinking bright

Mid April seemed like some November day

Mistress of gods and men! I have been thine

Monsieur the Curé down the street

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel

Mother wept, and father sigh’d

Move me that jasmine further from the bed

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe

My body sleeps: my heart awakes

My days are full of pleasant memories

My fairest child, I have no song to give you

My Fair, no beauty of thine will last

My first thought was, he lied in every word

My God (oh, let me call thee mine

My good blade carves the casques of men

My hero is na deck’d wi’ gowd

My hopes retire; my wishes as before

My life ebbs from me—I must die

My little boy at Christmastide

My little dear, so fast asleep

My little love, do you remember

My little son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes

My Lord Tomnoddy’s the son of an Earl

My love and I among the mountains strayed

My Love dwelt in a Northern land

My love he went to Burdon Fair

My masters twain made me a bed

My own!

My roof is hardly picturesque

My soul, asleep between its body throes

My times are in thy hand!

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes

Naiads, and ye pastures cold

Nancy Dawson, Nancy Dawson

Nature, a jealous mistress, laid him low

Nature and he went ever hand in hand

Nay, Death, thou art a shadow! Even as light

Nearer, my God, to thee

Near where yonder evening star

News to the king, good news for all

Nineteen! of years a pleasant number

No coward soul is mine

No, my own love of other years!

None ever climbed to mountain height of song

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye

No sleep like hers, no rest

Not a sound disturbs the air

Not I myself know all my love for thee

Not ’mid the thunder of the battle guns

Not only that thy puissant arm could bind

Not on the neck of prince or hound

Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high

Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!

Now hands to seed-sheet, boys!

Now has the lingering month at last gone by

Now heap the branchy barriers up

Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping

Now the day is over

Now the rite is duly done

Now this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky