496

I

INDIFFERENCE

ENVY not in any moods

the captive void of noble rage, the linnet born within the cage, that never knew the summer woods;

I envy not the beast that takes

his license in the field of time, unfettered by the sense of crime, to whom a conscience never wakes; nor, what may count itself as blest,

the heart that never plighted troth but stagnates in the weeds of sloth, nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'tis better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all.

A. TENNYSON

497

M

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN

AIDEN, that with sullen brow

sitt'st behind those virgins gay,
like a scorched and mildewed bough
leafless mid the blooms of May;
him who lured thee and forsook
oft I watched with angry gaze,
fearful saw his pleading look,
anxious heard his fervid praise;

soft the glances of the youth,
soft his words, and soft his sigh;
but no sound like simple truth,
but no true love in his eye:

loathing thy polluted lot,

hie thee, maiden, hie thee hence!
seek thy weeping Mother's cot,
with a wiser innocence.

S. T. COLERIDGE

498

499

DELIA

FAIR the face of orient day,

fair the tints of op'ning rose,
but fairer still my Delia dawns,
more lovely far her beauty blows.

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
but, Delia, more delightful still
steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flower-enamour'd busy bee
the rosy banquet loves to sip;
sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
to the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;—

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips

let me, no vagrant insect, rove! O let me steal one liquid kiss!

for oh! my soul is parched with love.

R. BURNS

THE BROOK

AUGH of the mountain! lyre of bird and tree! pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!

the soul of April, unto whom are born

the rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
although, where'er thy devious current strays,
the lap of earth with gold and silver teems,

to me thy clear proceeding brighter seems

than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. How without guile thy bosom, all transparent

as the pure crystal, lets the curious eye

thy secrets scan, thy smooth round pebbles count! how, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! O sweet simplicity of days gone by!

thou shun'st the haunts of men, to dwell in limpid fount! H. W. LONGFELLOW

500NE word is too often profaned

for me to profane it;

one feeling too falsely disdained
for thee to disdain it.

One hope is too like despair

for prudence to smother,
and Pity from thee more dear
than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,
but wilt thou accept not

the worship the heart lifts above
and the heavens reject not;
the desire of the moth for the star,
of the night for the morrow,
the devotion to something afar
from the sphere of our sorrow?

501 THER

502

P. B. SHELLEY

HERE is a shadow for each bough
that bends across the lake;

an answering echo for each sound
that mountain-travellers wake;
another star in yon still stream

for each star that doth shine;
and somewhere in the world I know
a heart that beats with mine.

If that frail bough should broken be,
the shadow with it flies;

and when the voice has passed away
how soon sweet echo dies!

The stream once dried, yon star in heaven
finds none on earth to love;

but should that heart be taken from me,
'twould beat with mine above.

A BACCHANALIAN SONG

TREW the roses, raise the song;

STR

see the master comes along: lusty Revel joined with Laughter, Whim and Frolic follow after:

the Fauns around the vats remain

to show the work and share the gain.

All around and all around

they sit to riot on the ground;

a vessel stands amidst the ring,

and here they laugh, and there they sing;

or rise a jolly, jolly band,

and dance about it hand in hand;

ANON

503

504

dance about and shout amain,
then sit to laugh and sing again;
thus they drink and thus they play
the sun and all their wits away.

THE BETROTHED

WOMAN'S faith and woman's trust;

write the characters in dust:

stamp them on the running stream;
print them on the moonlight's beam:
and each evanescent letter

shall be clearer, firmer, better,
and more permanent, I ween,
than the thing those letters mean:
I have strained the spider's thread
'gainst the promise of a maid:
I have weighed a grain of sand
'gainst her plight of heart and hand:

I told my true love of the token,

how her faith proved light and her word was broken; again her word and truth she plight,

and I believed them again ere night.

FULVIA

ES; Fulvia is like Venus fair;

YE

SIR W. SCOTT

has all her bloom and shape and air:

but still, to perfect every grace,

she wants-the smile upon her face.

The crown majestic Juno wore,
and Cynthia's brow the crescent bore,
an helmet masked Minerva's mien,
but smiles distinguished Beauty's queen.
Her train was formed of smiles and loves,
her chariot drawn by gentlest doves;
and from her zone the nymph may find,
'tis Beauty's province to be kind.

Then smile, my fair; and all, whose aim
aspires to paint the Cyprian dame
or bid her breathe in living stone,
shall take their forms from you alone.

W. SHENSTONE

505

506

THENE'ER I see those smiling eyes,

WHE

so full of hope and joy and light,
as if no cloud could ever rise

to dim a heaven so purely bright—
I sigh to think how soon that brow
in grief may lose its every ray,
and that light heart, so joyous now,
almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all its blights,
the ruined hope, the friend unkind,
and love, that leaves, where'er it lights,
a chilled or burning heart behind :—
while youth, that now like snow appears
ere sullied by the darkening rain,
when once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears,
can never shine so bright again.

THE EXEQUIES

RAW near,

DRA

you Lovers that complain

of Fortune or Disdain,

and to my ashes lend a tear;

melt the hard marble with your groans,
and soften the relentless stones,

whose cold embraces the sad subject hide
of all Love's cruelties and Beauty's pride.

No verse,

no epicedium bring,

nor peaceful requiem sing,

to charm the terrours of my hearse;
no profane numbers must flow near

the sacred silence that dwells here.

T. MOORE

Vast griefs are dumb; softly, oh! softly mourn,
lest you disturb the peace attends my urn.

Yet strew

upon my dismal grave

such offerings as you have, forsaken cypress and sad yew: