Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body drest

In the dress that she was wed in,

That her spirit might have rest.
A. Tennyson

LXV

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL

HE mountain and the squirrel

TH

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter 'Little prig'; Bun replied,

'You are doubtless very big,

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year,
And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track.

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.'

R. W. Emerson

LXVI

EVENING

HEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,

SHEPHERDS all, and

'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course has run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is,
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead night from underground,
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one of his loved flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come, as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day
Bear a kid or lamb away;
Or the crafty thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.

To secure yourselves from these,
Be not too secure in ease.

So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.

Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers

And soft silence fall in numbers

On your eyelids: so, farewell;

Thus I end my evening knell.

J. Fletcher

A

LXVII

THE PARROT

A True Story

PARROT, from the Spanish main,

Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mulla's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won
His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turned on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.

But petted in our climate cold,

He lived and chattered many a day: Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew gray.

At last when blind, and seeming dumb,

He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,

A Spanish stranger chanced to come
To Mulla's shore;

He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech,
The bird in Spanish speech replied;
Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech,
Dropt down, and died.

T. Campbell

I

LXVIII

SONG

HAD a dove, and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving :

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die-
Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You lived alone in the forest tree,

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas;

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

J. Keats

LXIX

THE BLIND BOY

SAY what is that thing called Light,

O Which I must ne'er enjoy ;

What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;

And could I ever keep awake
With me 't were always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

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.

C. Cibber