She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true,

For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo,
But honored well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair,
A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail, —

"Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!-

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is cursed alway!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

THE DREAMER.

66
FROM POEMS BY A SEAMSTRESS.'
""

NOT in the laughing bowers,

Where by green swinging elms a pleasant shade At summer's noon is made,

And where swift-footed hours

Steal the rich breath of enamored flowers, Dream I. Nor where the golden glories be, At sunset, laving o'er the flowing sea;

And to pure eyes the faculty is given

To trace a smooth ascent from Earth to Heaven!

Not on a couch of ease,

With all the appliances of joy at hand,
Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command;
Viands that might a godlike palate please,
And music's soul-creative ecstasies,
Dream I. Nor gloating o'er a wide estate,
Till the full, self-complacent heart elate,
Well satisfied with bliss of mortal birth,
Sighs for an immortality on Earth!

Then, when the gale is sighing,
And when the leaves are dying,
And when the song is o'er,
O, let us think of those
Whose lives are lost in woes,

Whose cup of grief runs o'er.

HENRY NEELE

HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.

HENCE, all ye vain delights,

As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,

But only melancholy,

O, sweetest melancholy !
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan !

These are the sounds we feed upon.

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

ANONYMOUS.

MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

MOAN, moan, ye dying gales!
The saddest of your tales

Is not so sad as life ;-
Nor have you e'er began
A theme so wild as man,

Or with such sorrow rife.

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf !
Autumn sears not like grief,

Nor kills such lovely flowers;
More terrible the storm,
More mournful the deform,

When dark misfortune lowers.

Hush hush! thou trembling lyre,
Silence, ye vocal choir,

And thou, mellifluous lute,

For man soon breathes his last,

And all his hope is past,

And all his music mute.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT."

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigh-ho sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly!

SHAKESPEARE.

FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."

SIX years had passed, and forty ere the six,
When Time began to play his usual tricks :
The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,
Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching
white;

The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.
I rode or walked as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,
But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb."
At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,

And must have all things in my order placed.
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot.

My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose.

In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,

And new dislike to forms and fashions new.
I loved my trees in order to dispose ;

I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ;
Told the same story oft, -in short, began to prose.

GEORGE CRABBE.

TOMMY'S DEAD.

You may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,

There's not a blade will grow, boys,

'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,

He's going blind, as I said,

My old eyes can't bear, boys,

To see him in the shed;

The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,

I doubt she's badly bred;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red;

There's no sign of grass, boys,

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,

And the beasts must be fed :
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.

Move my chair on the floor, boys,

Let me turn my head:

She's standing there in the door, boys, Your sister Winifred!

Take her away from me, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Move me round in my place, boys,

Let me turn my head,

Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all 's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head;
Out of the big oak tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys, -
The Lord be hallowed!
Outside and in

The ground is cold to my tread,

The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivelled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.

There's nothing but cinders and sand,

The rat and the mouse have fed,

And the summer's empty and cold;
Over valley and wold.
Wherever I turn my head

There's a mildew and a mould,

The sun's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,

And Tommy's dead.

What am I staying for, boys,
You 're all born and bred,

'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she 's gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,

She knew she'd never see 't, boys,

And she stole off to bed;
I've been sitting up alone, boys,

For he 'd come home, he said,

But it's time I was gone, boys,
For Tommy's dead.