538

'Tis Strephon on the mountain's brow
has won my right good-will;
to him I gave my plighted vow,
with him I'll climb the hill.'

Struck with her charms and gentle truth
I clasped the constant fair;
To her alone I gave my youth,

and vow my future care:

and when this vow shall faithless prove,
or I these charms forego,

the stream that saw our tender love,

that stream shall cease to flow.

W. SHENSTONE

EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L.H.

WOULD'ST thou hear, what man can say

in a little? Reader stay.

Underneath this stone doth lie
as much beauty, as could die;
which, in life, did harbour give
to more virtue than doth live:
if at all she had a fault,
leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth;

the other, let it sleep with Death:
fitter where it died to tell,

than that it lived at all.-Farewell.

539

BEN JONSON

DEAR

THE THREE SEASONS

EAR is the morning gale of spring,
and dear th' autumnal eve;

but few delights can summer bring

a Poet's crown to weave.

Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,

and ever Fancy's wing

speeds from beneath her cloudless sky,

to autumn or to spring.

540

541

Sweet is the infant's waking smile,

and sweet the old man's rest-
but middle age by no fond wile,
no soothing calm is blest.

Still in the world's hot restless gleam
she plies her weary task;

while vainly for some pleasant dream
her wandering glances ask.

J. KEBLE

THE ABBESS

THE

'HE abbess was of noble blood,
but early took the veil and hood,
ere upon life she cast a look,

or knew the world that she forsook.
Fair too she was, and kind had been
as she was fair, but ne'er had seen
for her a timid lover sigh,

nor knew the influence of her eye;
love to her ear was but a name,
combined with vanity and shame.
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all
bounded within the cloister wall:
the deadliest sin her mind could reach,
was of monastic rule the breach;
and her ambition's highest aim,
to emulate Saint Hilda's fame.

SIR W. SCOTT

THE SEA

WHERE

HERE is the sea? I languish here-
where is my own blue sea?

with all its barks of fleet career,
and flags and breezes free?

I miss the voice of waves-the first

that woke my childish glee;

the measured chime, the thundering burst-
where is my own blue sea?

O rich your myrtle's breath may rise,
soft, soft your winds may lie:

yet my sick heart within me dies;
where is my own blue sea?

542

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree-
the echoes of my soul are mute;
where is my own blue sea?

THE LOTOS-EATERS

HATEFUL is the dark-blue sky,

vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.

Death is the end of life; ah, why
should life all labour be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,

and in a little

Let us alone.

all things are

while our lips are dumb.

What is it that will last?

taken from us, and become

portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
to war with evil? is there any peace

in ever climbing up the climbing wave?

all things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
in silence; ripen, fall and cease:

give us long rest or death, dark death or dreadful ease.

A. TENNYSON

543

THE VESTAL

OW happy is the blameless Vestal's lot,

Ho

the world forgetting, by the world forgot?
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd;
labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;
desires composed, affections ever even;
tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
and whispering angels prompt her golden dreams:
for her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
and wings of Seraphs shed divine perfumes,
for her the spouse prepares the bridal ring,
for her white virgins hymenæals sing,

to sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,
and melts in visions of eternal day.

A. POPE

544

ELOISA

EE in her cell sad Eloisa spread,

SEE

propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead:
in each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
and more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watched the dying lamps around,
from yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound;
'Come, sister, come! (it said or seemed to say)
thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
once, like thyself, I trembled, wept and pray'd,
love's victim then, though now a sainted maid: ¦
but all is calm in this eternal sleep;

here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep;
ev'n superstition loses every fear:

for God, not man, absolves our frailties here.'
I come! I come! prepare your roseate bowers,
celestial palms and ever-blooming flowers:
thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow.

A. POPE

545 HIPPOLYTA TAURELLA TO Her husband during

:

HIS ABSENCE AT THE GAY COURT OF LEO X

HEY tell me thou'rt the favoured guest

THEY

of every fair and brilliant throng:

no wit like thine to wake the jest,

no voice like thine to breathe the song; and none could guess, so gay thou art, that thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows

with thee and me the time away!
not that I wish thee sad-heaven knows,
still if thou canst, be light and gay:
I only know, that without thee

the sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower,
among the proud and gay to shine?
or deck my hair with gem and flower
to flatter other eyes than thine?
Ah no; with me love's smiles are past,
thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

T. MOORE

546

547

RETURN OF SPRING TO THE LOVER

IS sweet in the green Spring,

'TIS

to gaze upon the wakening fields around;
birds in the thicket sing,

winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground;
a thousand odours rise,

breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes.

Shadowy and close and cool

the pine and poplar keep their quiet nook;
for ever fresh and full

shines at their feet the thirst-inviting brook;
and the soft herbage seems

spread for a place of banquets and of dreams.

Thou, who alone art fair,

and whom alone I love, art far away;
unless thy smile be there,

it makes me sad to see the earth so gay;
I care not if the train

of leaves and flowers and zephyrs go again.

EMMA TO HENRY

W. C. BRYANT

WHEN at the woods and rouse the bounding prey,

HEN from the cave thou risest with the day

the cave with moss and branches I'll adorn,
and cheerful sit, to wait my lord's return;

and, when thou frequent bring'st the smitten deer
(for seldom, archers say, thy arrows err),

I'll fetch quick fuel from the neighbouring wood,
and strike the sparkling flint, and dress the food:
with humble duty and officious haste

I'll cull the furthest mead for thy repast:
the choicest herbs I to thy board will bring,
and draw thee water from the freshest spring;
and, when at night with weary toil opprest,
soft slumber thou enjoy'st and wholesome rest;
watchful I'll guard thee, and with midnight prayer
weary the gods to keep thee in their care;
and joyous ask, at morn's returning ray,

if thou hast health, and I may bless the day.

M. PRIOR