Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

Index to First Lines

There lies a little city leagues away

There never were such radiant noons

There’s a joy without canker or cark

There the moon leans out and blesses

There they are, my fifty men and women

There was a gather’d stillness in the room

There was a lady liv’d at Leith

There were four of us about that bed

There were ninety and nine that safely lay

There were three young maids of Lee

The roar of Niagara dies away

The rose thou gav’st at parting

The rosy musk-mallow blooms where the south wind blows

The ruddy sunset lies

The sea is calm to-night

The sea! the sea! the open sea!

These dreary hours of hopeless gloom

These little Songs

The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow

The sonnet is a fruit which long hath slept

The soul of man is larger than the sky

The splendor falls on castle walls

The splendor of the kindling day

The Spring will come again, dear friends

The stream was smooth as glass

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery’s hundred isles

The sunset in the rosy west

The sun shines on the chamber wall

The swallow, bonny birdie, comes sharp twittering o’er the sea

The swarthy bee is a buccaneer

The tale was this

The thing is but a statue after all!

The time shall come when wrong shall end

The tongue of England, that which myriads

The training-ship Eurydice

The unfathomable sea, and time, and tears

The vale of Tempe had in vain been fair

The victor stood beside the spoil, and by the grinning dead

The villeins clustered round the bowl

The voice that breath’d o’er Eden

The wattles were sweet with September’s rain

The white blossom’s off the bog and the leaves are off the trees

The wind flapp’d loose, the wind was still

The wind of death that softly blows

The wisest of the wise

The world, not hush’d, lay as in trance

They are waiting on the shore

They call her fair. I do not know

The year ’s at the spring

They found it in her hollow marble bed

They hasten, still they hasten

They look’d on each other and spake not

They mock’d the Sovereign of Ghaznin: one saith

They rous’d him with muffins—they rous’d him with ice

They say that Pity in Love’s service dwells

They say that thou wert lovely on thy bier

They shot young Windebank just here

They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead

They told me in their shadowy phrase

They went to sea in a sieve, they did

They were islanders, our fathers were

Thick rise the spear-shafts o’er the land

This case befell at four of the clock

This I got on the day that Goring

This infant world has taken long to make!

This is a spray the bird clung to

This is her picture as she was

This is the convent where they tend the sick

This is the glamour of the world antique

This is the room to which she came that day

This is the way we dress the Doll

This new Diana makes weak men her prey

This peach is pink with such a pink

This region is as lavish of its flowers

This relative of mine

This the house of Circe, queen of charms

Thou art not, and thou never canst be mine

Thou art the flower of grief to me

Thou art the joy of age

Thou didst delight my eyes

Though our great love a little wrong his fame

Though singing but the shy and sweet

Thou hast fill’d me a golden cup

Thou hast lost thy love, poor fool

Thou only bird that singest as thou flyest

Thou that hast a daughter

Thou that once, on mother’s knee

Thou tiny solace of these prison days

Thou too hast travell’d, little fluttering thing

Thou vague dumb crawler with the groping head

Thou wert fair, Lady Mary

Thou whom these eyes saw never, say friends true

Thou wilt forget me

Three fishers went sailing out into the West

Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing

Three twangs of the horn, and they ’re all out of cover!

Through great Earl Norman’s acres wide

Through laughing leaves the sunlight comes

Through storm and fire and gloom, I see it stand

Through the seeding grass

Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went

Thus said the Lord in the vault above the cherubim

Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet, cool air of October

Thy glory alone, O God, be the end of all that I say

Thy greatest knew thee, Mother Earth; unsour’d

Thy name of old was great

Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums

Thy way, not mine, O Lord

Time has a magic wand!

Tintadgel bells ring o’er the tide

’T is a stern and startling thing to think

’T is a world of silences. I gave a cry

’T is bedtime; say your hymn, and bid “Good-night

’T is Christmas, and the North wind blows

’T is evening now!

’T is sair to dream o’ them we like

’T is They, of a veritie

To-day, what is there in the air

To murder one so young!

To my true king I offer’d free from stain

Too avid of earth’s bliss, he was of those

Too wearily had we and song

To sea, to sea! The calm is o’er

To soothe a mad King’s fevered brain

To Spend the long warm days

To thee, O father of the stately peaks

To the forgotten dead

To the Wake of O’Hara

To turn my volumes o’er nor find

Touch not that maid

Touch us gently, Time!

To write as your sweet mother does

Tripping down the field-path

Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?

Twa race doon by the Gatehope-Slack

’T was a fierce night when old Mawgan died

’T was brillig, and the slithy toves

’T was but a poor little room

’T was evening, though not sunset, and the tide

’T was in mid autumn, and the woods were still

’T was in the prime of summer time

’T was just before the hay was mown

’T was the body of Judas Iscariot

’T was the day beside the Pyramids

Twelve years ago, when I could face

Twist me a crown of wind-flowers

Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom

Twitched strings, the clang of metal, beaten drums

Two gaz’d into a pool, he gaz’d and she

Two souls diverse out of our human sight

Two stars once on their lonely way

Two voices are there: one is of the deep

Two winged genii in the air

Two worlds hast thou to dwell in, Sweet

Tyre of the West, and glorying in the name

Under her gentle seeing

Under the wide and starry sky

Up into the cherry tree

Up, my dogs, merrily

Upon a day in Ramadan

Upon St. Michael’s Isle

Up the airy mountain

Up the dale and down the bourne

Vainly for us the sunbeams shine

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!

Vasari tells that Luca Signorelli

Venice, thou Siren of sea-cities, wrought

Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea

Wait but a little while

Wake! For the Sun who scatter’d into flight

Wales England wed; so I was bred

Was sorrow ever like unto our sorrow?

Watchman, tell us of the night

Water, for anguish of the solstice:—nay

We are as mendicants who wait

We are born; we laugh; we weep

We are in love’s land to-day

We are what suns and winds and waters make us

We crown’d the hard-won heights at length

We do lie beneath the grass

Weep not! tears must vainly fall

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town

We have been friends together

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou art goodly, O Love

Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo!

We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack

Welcome, old friend! These many years

We ’ll a’ go pu’ the heather

We ’ll not weep for summer over

We meet ’neath the sounding rafter

We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit ’s fire

Were I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him

Were you ever in sweet Tipperary

Werther had a love for Charlotte

We saw the swallows gathering in the sky

We shall lodge at the sign of the Grave, you say

We stand upon the moorish mountain side

We stood so steady

West wind, blow from your prairie nest

We ’ve fought with many men acrost the seas

We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night

We were playing on the green together

What are the bugles blowin’ for? said Files-on-Parade

What are the Vision and the Cry

What cometh here from west to east a-wending?

What curled and scented sun-girls, almond-eyed

What days await this woman, whose strange feet

Whate’er of woe the Dark may hide in womb

What holds her fixed far eyes nor lets them range?

What makes a hero?—not success, not fame

What might be done if men were wise

What of her glass without her? The blank gray

What power is this? what witchery wins my fee

What reck we of the creeds of men?

What sawest thou, Orion, thou hunter of the star-lands

What saw you in your flight to-day

What shall my gift be to the dead one lying

What should a man desire to leave?

What though thy Muse the singer’s art essay

What voice did on my spirit fall

What was he doing, the great god Pan

What was’t awaken’d first the untried ear

Wheer ’asta beän saw long and meä liggin’ ’ere aloän?

When a’ ither bairnies are hush’d to their hame

When at close of winter’s night

When do I see thee most, beloved one?

Whene’er across this sinful flesh of mine

Whene’er there comes a little child

When first the unflowering Fern-forest

When from my lips the last faint sigh is blown

When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face

When He returns, and finds the world so drear

When I am dead and I am quite forgot

When I am dead, my spirit

When I was dead, my spirit turn’d

When I was sick and lay a-bed

When Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year

When, lov’d by poet and painter

When mirth is full and free

When my Clorinda walks in white

When my feet have wander’d

When on my country walks I go

When on the breath of autumn breeze

When our heads are bow’d with woe

When russet beech-leaves drift in air

When stars are in the quiet skies

When the dumb Hour, cloth’d in black

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold

When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces

When the last bitterness was past, she bore

When the soul sought refuge in the place of rest

When, think you, comes the Wind

When we are parted let me lie

When we were girl and boy together

When you are dead some day, my dear

Where are the swallows fled?

Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?

Where Ausonian summers glowing

Where did you come from, baby dear?

Where, girt with orchard and with olive-yard

Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

Where shall we learn to die?

Where the thistle lifts a purple crown

Where wert thou, Soul, ere yet my body born

Whethen is it yourself, Mister Hagan?

Which is more sweet,—the slow mysterious stream

Which of the Angels sang so well in Heaven

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear

White little hands!

Whither is gone the wisdom and the power

Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding

Who calls me bold because I won my love

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?

Who has not walk’d upon the shore

Whom the gods love die young

Who remains in London

Whosoe’er

Who will away to Athens with me? who

Why groaning so, thou solid earth

Why, let them rail! God’s full anointed ones

Why, when the world’s great mind

Why will you haunt me unawares

Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair?

Widow Machree, it ’s no wonder you frown

Wild huntsmen?—’T was a flight of swans

Wild, wild wind, wilt thou never cease they sighing?

Will there never come a season

With breath of thyme and bees that hum

With deep affection

Wither’d pansies faint and sweet

With fingers weary and worn

With half a heart I wander here

Within a low-thatch’d hut, built in a lane

Within the unchanging twilight

With little white leaves in the grasses

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan

With purple glow at even

With rosy hand a little girl press’d down

Word was brought to the Danish king

Would God my heart were greater; but God wot

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build

Yea, love, I know, and I would have it thus

Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear

Year after year

Year after year I sit for them

Ye are young, ye are young

Yes, Cara mine, I know that I shall stand

Yes; I write verses now and then

Yes, love, the Spring shall come again

Yes! thou art fair, and I had lov’d

Yes; when the ways oppose

Yon silvery billows breaking on the beach

You ask for fame or power?

You had two girls—Baptiste

You know, we French storm’d Ratisbon

You lay a wreath on murder’d Lincoln’s bier

You may give over plough, boys

You must be troubled, Asthore

Young Rory O’More courted Kathleen Bawn

Young Sir Guyon proudly said

You promise heavens free from strife

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees

Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass

Your tiny picture makes me yearn

You smil’d, you spoke, and I believ’d

You take a town you cannot keep