'A chain of gold ye sall not lack, And you, the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen '— But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In saffron robe, with taper clear, And ever against eating cares Such as the meeting soul may pierce That Orpheus' self may heave his head Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear His half-regain'd Eurydicè. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. J. MILTON 150 IL PENSEROSO HENCE, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, The sea nymphs, and their powers offended His daughter she; in Saturn's reign |