"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake the work was done How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. William Wordsworth. TO DIANEME SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes Be Which wantons with the lovesick air; When all your world of beauty's gone. Robert Herrick. THE TRUE BEAUTY HE that loves a rosy cheek But a smooth and steadfast mind, Kindle never-dying fires: Thomas Carew. TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD1 LORDS, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band My pen, among the rest, I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell, For, while she makes her silkworm beds She may receive and own my flame, For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends, For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it. Matthew Prior. PROUD MAISIE PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. "Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" "When six braw gentlemen "Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?" "The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly "The glow-worm o'er grave and stone The owl from the steeple sing, 'Welcome, proud lady."" Sir Walter Scott. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE COME live with me and be my love, And we will sit upon the rocks, And I will make thee beds of roses A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw and ivy-buds Thy silver dishes for thy meat Prepared each day for thee and me. |