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
Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.

"How's my boy-my boy?

And unless you let me know,

I'll swear you are no sailor,

Blue jacket or no,
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown 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."

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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,
Wheel, wheel through the shadow;
There must be odors round the pine,
There must be balm of breathing kine,
Somewhere down in the meadow.
Must I choose? Then anchor me there
Beyond the beckoning poplars, where
The larch is snooding her flowery hair
With wreaths of morning shadow.

Among the thickest hazels of the brake
Perchance some nightingale doth shake
His feathers, and the air is full of song;

In those old days when I was young and strong,
He used to sing on yonder garden tree,
Beside the nursery.

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,
Beneath the vernal moon;

And while I listed long,

Day rose, and still he sang,
And all his stanchless song,

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-
A hound that dreams and dozes;
Along my life my length I lay,

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,
And like one who dreams and dozes
Softly afloat on a sunny sea,

Two worlds are whispering over me,
And there blows a wind of roses

From the backward shore to the shore before,
From the shore before to the backward shore,
And like two clouds that meet and pour
Each through each, till core in core
A single self reposes,

The nevermore with the evermore
Above me mingles and closes;

As my soul lies out like the basking hound,
And wherever it lies seems happy ground,
And when, awakened by some sweet sound,
A dreamy eye uncloses,

I see a blooming world around,
And I lie amid primroses-
Years of sweet primroses,
Springs of fresh primroses,

Springs to be, and springs for me
Of distant dim primroses.

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,
And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a
thousand pains,

Cooled at once by that blood-let
Upon the parapet;

And all the tedious taskèd toil of the difficult long endeavor

Solved and quit by no more fine
Than these limbs of mine,
Spanned and measured once for all
By that right hand I lost,
Bought up at so light a cost
As one bloody fall
On the soldier's bed,

And three days on the ruined wall
Among the thirstless dead.

O to think my name is crossed
That I may slumber though the clarion call,
From duty's muster-roll;
And live the joy of an embodied soul
Free as a liberated ghost!

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
Through years of segregated care,
And takes the total load
Upon his shoulders broad,
And steps from earth to God!

O to think, through good or ill,
Whatever I am you 'll love me still;
O to think, though dull I be,
You that are so grand and free,
You that are so bright and gay,
Will pause to hear me when I will,
As though my head were gray;
And though there 's little I can say,
Each will look kind with honor while he hears.
And to your loving ears

My thoughts will halt with honorable scars, And when my dark voice stumbles with the weight

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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,
While his mother speaks his praises,
Holds with eager hands,

And ruddy and silent stands
In the ruddy and silent daisies,
And hears her bless her boy,
And lifts a wondering joy,
So I'll not seek nor sue her,

But I'll leave my glory to woo her,
And I'll stand like a child beside,
And from behind the purple pride
I'll lift my eyes unto her,

And I shall not be denied.

And you will love her, brother dear,

And perhaps next year you'll bring me here
All through the balmy April tide,

And she will trip like Spring by my side,
And be all the birds to my ear.

And here all three we 'll sit in the sun,
And see the Aprils one by one,
Primrosed Aprils on and on,
Till the floating prospect closes
In golden glimmers that rise and rise,
And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,
And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,
New springs of fresh primroses,
Springs of earth's primroses,
Springs to be and springs for me
Of distant dim primroses.

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,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

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,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.

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,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed 's waste, I know, boys,
There's not a blade will grow, boys,
"T is cropped out, I trow, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.

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,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred;
Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red;

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,
Your sister Winifred !

Take her away from me, boys,
Your sister Winifred!

Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,
Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all's done and said,

But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head;
Out of the big oak-tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys,
But I think its not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys-
The Lord be hallowed!
Outside and in

The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivelled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.
There's nothing but cinders and sand,
The rat and the mouse have fed,

And the summer 's empty and cold;
Over valley and wold
Wherever I turn my head
There's a mildew and a mould,
The sun's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,
And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys?
You 're all born and bred,
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she's gone before, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.

She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,

She knew she 'd never see 't, boys,
And she stole off to bed;
I've been sitting up alone, boys,
For he 'd come home, he said,
But it's time I was gone, boys,
For Tommy's dead.

Put the shutters up, boys,
Bring out the beer and bread,
Make haste and sup, 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've such a sleepy head,

I shall never more be stout, boys,
You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys,
The prayers are all said,
The fire's raked out, boys,
And Tommy 's dead?

The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head,
The night's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed,
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.

I'm not used to kiss, boys,

You may shake my hand instead.
All things go amiss, boys,

You may lay me where she is, boys,
And I'll rest my old head:
'Tis a poor world, this, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.

DESOLATE.

FROM the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain!
The water washing at the latchel door;
A slow step plashing by upon the moor;
A single bleat far from the famished fold;
The clicking of an embered hearth and cold;
The rainy Robin tic-tac at the pane.

"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 rainy Robin tic-tac at the pane.
Here in this breast all day

The fire is dim and low,
Within I care not to stay,
Without I care not to go.

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,
I see the boatman listless lie;
He cannot hear the cry
That in mine ears doth ring
Farewell, farewell!

Doth it pass him o'er and o'er,
Heard upon the shore behind,
Farewell, farewell!

Heard upon the ship before,
Farewell, farewell!

Like an arrow that can dart

Viewless through the viewless wind,
Plain on the quivering string,
And plain in the victim's heart?

Are there voices in the sky,
Farewell, farewell?

Am I mocked by the bright air;
Farewell, farewell?

The empty air that everywhere
Silvers back the sung reply,
Farewell, farewell!

Dearer, dearer, dearer―
Ay while I saw thy face,
In that long last embrace,
The first, the last, the best-

Ay while I held thee heart to heart,
My soul had pushed off from the shore,
And we were far apart;

I heard her calling, calling,
From the sea of nevermore-
Farewell, farewell!

Fainter, fainter, like a bell
Rung from some receding ship,
Farewell, farewell!

The far and farther knell
Did hardly reach my lip,
Farewell, farewell!
Farewell, farewell, farewell!
Away, you omens vain!

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,

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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?
Are thy mermaid sisters singing?
The saddest shell of every cell
Ringing still, and ringing
Farewell, farewell!

To the sinking sighing singing,
To the floating flying singing,
To the deepening dying singing,
In the swell,
Farewell, farewell!

And the failing wailing ringing,
The reaming dreaming ringing
Of fainter shell in deeper cell,
To the sunken sunken singing,
Farewell, farewell!
Farewell, farewell!

Farewell, farewell, farewell!

Ay, when I felt thee falling
On this heaving breast-
Ay, when I felt thee pressed
Nearer, nearer, nearer,