THE BLIND BOY For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa. 29 William Julius Mickle. THE BLIND BOY Он, say what is that thing called Light, You talk of wondrous things you see; My day or night myself I make And could I ever keep awake With heavy sighs I often hear Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy: Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. Colley Cibber. THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE STUDY "COME forth! my catbird calls to me, Shall hang a garden of Alcina. "These buttercups shall brim with wine "Or, if to me you will not hark, By Beaver Brook a thrush is ringing, Till all the alder-coverts dark Seem sunshine-dappled with his singing. "Come out beneath the unmastered sky, "What boot your many-volumed gains, "The leaves wherein true wisdom lies On living trees the sun are drinking; Those white clouds, drowsing through the skies, Grew not so beautiful by thinking. THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE STUDY 31 "Come out! with me the oriole cries, "Alas, dear friend, that, all my days, Has poured from thy syringa thicket The quaintly discontinuous lays To which I hold a season-ticket, "A season-ticket cheaply bought With a dessert of pilfered berries, And who so oft my soul has caught With morn and evening voluntaries, "Deem me not faithless, if all day Among my dusty books I linger, "A bird is singing in my brain And bubbling o'er with mingled fancies, "I ask no ampler skies than those His magic music rears above me, No falser friends, no truer foes, And does not Doña Clara love me? "Cloaked shapes, a twanging of guitars, A rush of feet, and rapiers clashing, Then silence deep with breathless stars, "O music of all moods and climes, Vengeful, forgiving, sensuous, saintly, Where still, between the Christian chimes, The Moorish cymbal tinkles faintly! "O life borne lightly in the hand, For friend or foe with grace Castilian! O valley safe in Fancy's land, Not tramped to mud yet by the million! "Bird of to-day, thy songs are stale To his, my singer of all weathers, My Calderon, my nightingale, My Arab soul in Spanish feathers. "Ah, friend, these singers dead so long, James Russell Lowell. THE FAIRIES Up the airy mountain, Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; THE FAIRIES Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Of the black mountain lake, High on the hilltop The old King sits; He is now so old and gray, From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again, Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow; 33 |