SYDNEY DOBELL. SYDNEY DOBELL was born at Peckham Rye, near London, on the 5th of April, 1824. His father was a wine-merchant. The family removed to Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, in 1835, and a year later Sydney became a clerk in his father's counting-room, where he spent twelve years. He was educated entirely at home, began to write verse at the age of nine, and gave all his leisure to literature. He married in 1844, and four years afterward settled at Leckhampton, in the Cotswold Hills. In 1850 he published "The Roman," a dramatic poem, under the nom de plume of "Sydney Yendys," and soon after he went with his wife to Switzerland. There he wrote "Balder," another dramatic poem, published in 1854. The Dobells spent several successive summers in the Scottish Highlands, where they became intimate with Alexander | HOW'S MY BOY? "Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy-my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?" "My boy John He that went to sea What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea, And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman There's not an ass in all the parish "How's my boy-my boy? And unless you let me know, I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton'' "Speak low, woman, speak low! " "And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor?" "That good ship went down." | Smith, and in 1855 Dobell and he published together a volume of "Sonnets on the War." Dobell's best book of poems, "England in Time of War," appeared in 1856. He lectured in Edinburgh, on "The Nature of Poetry," in 1857, and a bronchial irritation which attacked him after the lecture caused his physician to order his immediate removal to the south. He resided for a year in the Isle of Wight, and then leased Cleeve Tower, an ancient structure near the highest point of the Cotswolds, where he spent the remainder of his life, and died on August 24, 1874. He published a volume of lyrics, "England's Day," in 1871. A posthumous collection of his prose writings is announced. Dobell was a shrewd man of business, and expert at riding, fishing, rowing, and other athletic sports, of which he was very fond. Or down by the little river: Stay as long as you please, Give me only a bud from the trees, Or a blade of grass in morning dew, Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, I could look on it forever. Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, Among the thickest hazels of the brake In those old days when I was young and strong, Ah, I remember how I loved to wake, And find him singing on the self-same bough (I know it even now) Where, since the flit of bat, In ceaseless voice he sat, Trying the spring night over, like a tune, And while I listed long, Day rose, and still he sang, As something falling unaware, Fell out of the tall trees he sang among, Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rangRang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. My soul lies out like a basking hound- I fill to-morrow and yesterday, I am warm with the suns that have long since set, I am warm with the summers that are not yet, Two worlds are whispering over me, From the backward shore to the shore before, The nevermore with the evermore As my soul lies out like the basking hound, I see a blooming world around, Springs to be, and springs for me O to lie a-dream, a-dream, To feel I may dream and to know you deem My work is done forever, And the palpitating fever, That gains and loses, loses and gains, Cooled at once by that blood-let And all the tedious taskèd toil of the difficult long endeavor Solved and quit by no more fine And three days on the ruined wall O to think my name is crossed O to feel a life of deed Was emptied out to feed That fire of pain that burned so brief awhileThat fire from which I come, as the dead come Forth from the irreparable tomb, Or as a martyr on his funeral pile Heaps up the burdens other men do bear O to think, through good or ill, My thoughts will halt with honorable scars, And when my dark voice stumbles with the weight A NUPTIAL EVE. 539 And I only lived to rue her. But I'll never love another, And, in spite of her lovers and lands, She shall love me yet, my brother! As a child that holds by his mother, And ruddy and silent stands But I'll leave my glory to woo her, And I shall not be denied. And you will love her, brother dear, And perhaps next year you'll bring me here And she will trip like Spring by my side, And here all three we 'll sit in the sun, The murmur of the morning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, "O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!" Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And through the silver meads! Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she! She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode through the Monday morn; His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine! O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! I lay my hand upon the stile, Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Step out three steps, where Andrew stoodWhy blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear! She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! TOMMY 'S DEAD. You may give over plough, boys, Send the colt to fair, boys, He's going blind, as I said, My old eyes can't bear, boys, To see him in the shed; The cow's dry and spare, boys, There's no sign of grass, boys, You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, The land 's not what it was, boys, And the beasts must be fed: You may turn Peg away, boys, You may pay off old Ned, We've had a dull day, boys, And Tommy's dead. Move my chair on the floor, boys, Let me turn my head: She's standing there in the door, boys, Take her away from me, boys, Move me round in my place, boys, But I see her looking at me, boys, And the lily as pale as she, boys, There's something not right, boys, The ground is cold to my tread, And the summer 's empty and cold; What am I staying for, boys? She was always sweet, boys, She knew she 'd never see 't, boys, Put the shutters up, boys, For my eyes are heavy as lead; There's something wrong i' the cup, boys, There's something ill wi' the bread, I do n't care to sup, boys, And Tommy 's dead. I'm not right, I doubt, boys, I shall never more be stout, boys, The stairs are too steep, boys, I'm not used to kiss, boys, You may shake my hand instead. You may lay me where she is, boys, DESOLATE. FROM the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain! "So as it is with thee Is it with me, So as it is and it used not to be, With thee used not to be, Nor me." So singeth Robin on the willow-tree, The fire is dim and low, A sadness ever sings Of unforgotten things, And the bird of love is patting at the pane; But the wintry water deepens at the door, And a step is plashing by upon the moor Into the dark upon the darkening moor, And alas, alas, the drip-drop of the rain! Yon boat upon the sea, It floats 'twixt thee and me, Doth it pass him o'er and o'er, Heard upon the ship before, Like an arrow that can dart Viewless through the viewless wind, Are there voices in the sky, Am I mocked by the bright air; The empty air that everywhere FAREWELL. Dearer, dearer, dearer― Ay while I held thee heart to heart, I heard her calling, calling, Fainter, fainter, like a bell The far and farther knell Away, away! What will you not be driven? My heart is trembling to your augury. Hence! Like a flight of sea-birds at a gun, 541 A thousand ways they scatter back to heaven, Wheel lessening out of sight, and swoop again as one! Arouse my heart! arouse ! This is the sea: I strike these wooden walls: The sailors come and go at my command: I lift this cable with my hand: I loose it and it falls: Arouse! she is not lost, Thou art not plighted to a moonlight ghost, But to a living spouse. Arouse! we only part to meet again! O thou moody main, Are thy mermaid cells a-ringing? To the sinking sighing singing, And the failing wailing ringing, Farewell, farewell, farewell! Ay, when I felt thee falling |