I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high: Like the sun from a wintry sky. Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. 1822. 1824. 24 32 Percy Bysshe Shelley. ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR 'T is time this heart should be unmoved, My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! 8 The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blazeA funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, But 't is not thus-and 't is not here- nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, The sword, the banner, and the field, 12 16 20 24 Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!) Tread those reviving passions down, 28 32 66 Soldier, Rest! thy Warfare O'er " If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here:-up to the field, and give Seek out-less often sought than found- 1824. 36 40 Lord Byron. "SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER" From The Lady of the Lake SOLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 12 Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan or squadron tramping. Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumberous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying: Here no bugles sound reveillé. 24 36 1810. Sir Walter Scott. MELANCHOLY From The Nice Valour HENCE, all you vain delights, Wherein you spend your folly! 1647. The Bridge There's naught in this life sweet, O sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes, A look that 's fasten'd to the ground, Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. II 19 John Fletcher. THE BRIDGE I STOOD On the bridge at midnight, I saw her bright reflection |