« ForrigeFortsæt »
GRIEF decreases when it can swell no higher.
YET still he wasted as the snow congeal'd
When the bright sunne his beams thereon did beat.
WHEN Sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.
Why dost borrow
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—
To the white rose bushes?
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
Why dost borrow
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ?—
Or, on a moonless night,
To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spray?
Why dost borrow
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ?—
But ah! she is so constant and so kind.
Beneath the palm-trees, by the river side,
There was no one to ask me why I wept-
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears,
I've been a ranger
In search of pleasure throughout every clime;
Bewitch'd I sure must be,
To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.
Come then, sorrow,
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:
And deceive thee,
But now of all the world I love thee best.
There is not one,
No no, not one
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;
And her brother,
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.
KEATS. Endymion, Book IV.
WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER,
IN Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
Those days are gone, but Beauty still is here.
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
Childe Harold, Canto IV.
On the Extinction of the Republic.
ONCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee,
She was a maiden city, bright and free;
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
THE current, that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But, when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with th' enamel'd stones,
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage:
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act II.
THIS river does not see the naked sky
I had been used to pass my weary eves;
KEATS. Endymion, Book I.
OUR indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us,
Rough-hew them how we will.
Hamlet, Act V.
YET cease the ways of Providence to blame
PERVERSE mankind! whose wills, created free,
POPE. Odyssey, Book I.
Theseus. MORE strange than true. I never may believe
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping phantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
*In ev'ry way, in ev'ry sense,
Dr. Syntax's Tour, Canto VIII.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Such tricks hath strong imagination;
Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V.
EVER let the Fancy roam,
At a touch sweet pleasure melteth.†
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
* Imaginary evils soon become real ones by indulging our reflections on them; as he who in a melancholy fancy sees something like a face on the wall or wainscot, can, by two or three touches with a lead pencil, make it look visible, and agreeing with what he fancied.
+ But pleasures are like poppies spread,
A moment white,-then melts for ever;
That flit e'er you can point their place;
Evanishing amid the storm.
BURNS. Tam O'Shanter.