He hath been bred too wantonly Why, help him to a master, then, Quoth I, when you your best have done, Than to a harper bind your son, Quoth I, I pray you let me know, Or by some sickness, hurt, or blow, Nay, sure, quoth she, he thus was born. 'Tis strange, born blind! quoth I; I fear you put this as a scorn On my simplicity. Quoth she, thus blind I did him bear. Quoth I, if't be no lie, Then he's the first blind man, I'll swear, E'er practis'd archery. A man! quoth she, nay, there you miss, Nor to be elder than he is It is a mystery to me, An archer, and yet blind! The gods, quoth she, whose will it was Gave him this gift, though at his game That he should have so certain aim, As not to miss his mark. By this time we were come ashore, But not a word she utter'd more, M. Drayton X SONG Under the greenwood tree, And tune his merry 'note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall we see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live in the sun, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. W. Shakespeare XI LUCY GRAY Or Solitude Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; -The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light 'That, Father, will I gladly do! The minster-clock has just struck two, At this the Father raised his hook, He plied his work ;-and Lucy took Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, The storm came on before its time: And many a hill did Lucy climb; The wretched parents all that night But there was neither sound nor sight At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 'In heaven we all shall meet !' -When in the snow the mother spied Then downward from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed; They followed from the snowy bank -Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; W. Wordsworth XII RAIN IN SUMMER How beautiful is the rain! |