Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

I

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

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN

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

FAIR

DELIA
AIR 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

LAU

499

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 guilė 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

500 ON for me to profane it

NE word is too often profaned

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?

P. B. SHELLEY

501 THERE is a shadow

for each bough

;
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.

ANON

STRE

502

A BACCHANALIAN SONG
TREW the roses, raise the song;

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;

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.

503

THE BETROTHED
WO

COMAN'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.

SIR W. SCOTT 504

FULVIA
ES; Fulvia is like Venus fair;

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

YES

WHEN

505

JHENE’ER I see those smiling eyes,

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

to dim a heaven so purely brightI 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.

T. MOORE

[blocks in formation]

RAW near,
DR

you Lovers that complain
of Fortune or Disdain,
and to my ashes lend a tear;
melt the hard marble with your groans,

and sotten 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 Aow near
the sacred silence that dwells here.
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:

« ForrigeFortsæt »