Within, is neither blight nor death;
The fierce sun wooes with ardent breath,
But cannot win thy sylvan heart.
Only the child who loves thee long,
With faithful worship pure and strong,
Can know how dear and sweet thou art.

So loved I thee in days gone by,
So love I yet, though leagues may lie
Between us, and the years divide;
A breath of coolness, dawn, and dew,
A joy forever fresh and true,
Thy memory doth with me abide.

ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL.

Before her home, in her accustomed seat,
The tidy grandam spins beneath the shade
Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet

The dreaming pug and purring tabby laid;
To her low chair a little maiden clings,
And spells in silence - while the Blackbird sings.

Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud

Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens green, While the far fields with sunlight overflowed Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen ; Again the sunshine on the shadow springs, And fires the thicket-where the Blackbird sings.

The woods, the lawn, the peaked manor-house, With its peach-covered walls, and rookery loud, The trim, quaint garden-alleys, screened with boughs,

The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, The mossy fountain with its murmurings, Lie in warm sunshine - while the Blackbird

sings.

The ring of silver voices, and the sheen

Of festal garments, and my lady streams With her gay court across the garden green; Some laugh and dance, some whisper their love-dreams;

And one calls for a little page: he strings
Her lute beside her while the Blackbird sings.

--

A little while, and lo! the charm is heard :
A youth, whose life has been all summer, steals
Forth from the noisy guests around the board,

Creeps by her softly, at her footstool kneels, And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things Into her fond ear- while the Blackbird sings.

The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher,

And dizzy things of eve begin to float Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire. Half-way to sunset with a drowsy note The ancient clock from out the valley swings; The grandam nods and still the Blackbird sings.

Far shouts and laughter from the farm-stead peal, Where the great stack is piling in the sun; Through narrow gates o'erladen wagons reel,

And barking curs into the tumult run; While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings

realm,

Curse good and great, but worship their own wit, And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings, Corn, colts, and curs- the while the Blackbird sings.

On the high wold the last look of the sun

Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream; The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun; The grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream;

To Thessaly I came; and, living private,
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encountered me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art and nature ever were at strife in.
AMETHUS. I cannot yet conceive what you
infer

By art and nature.

MEN.

I shall soon resolve you. A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather, Indeed, entranced my soul. As I stole nearer, Invited by the melancholy, I saw

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute,
With strains of strange variety and harmony,
Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds,
That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent,
Wondering at what they heard. I wondered too.
AM. And so do I; good! — On!
MEN.
A nightingale,
Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes
The challenge, and, for every several strain
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her

own;

He could not run division with more art
Upon his quaking instrument than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to; for a voice, and for a sound,
Amethus, 't is much easier to believe
That such they were than hope to hear again.
AM. How did the rivals part?
MEN.
You term them rightly;
For they were rivals, and their mistress, Har-
mony. -

FROM "THE CANTERBURY TALES: PROLOGUE."

WHAN that Aprille with hise shourès soote1
The droglite of March hath percèd to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich 2 licour,
Of which vertue engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt 3 and heeth
The tendre croppès, and the yongè sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfè cours y-ronne,
And smalè fowelès maken melodye
That slepen al the nyght with open eye,
So priketh hem nature in hir corages,*
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straungè strondes,
To ferne halwes,5 kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shirès ende

notes,

Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice :
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
AM. Now for the bird.
ΜΕΝ.

Failed in, for grief, down dropped she on his lute, And broke her heart! It was the quaintest sad

ness

nature, men, and manners, and of his clear, graphic, descriptive style. The text followed is that of the "Riverside Edition," edited

by Mr. Arthur Gilman, which is based chiefly on that of the manu script in possession of Lord Ellesmere, published by the Chaucer Society of London. That edition, however, is not responsible for the explanatory notes, nor for the addition of the grave accent, used to indicate syllables which the rhythm requires to be pronounced, in order to simplify the reading for those unaccustomed to the old-time Irregularities of spelling.

Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrymes were thei alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.

A KNYGHT ther was, and that a worthy man, That fro the tymè that he first bigan To riden out, he loved chivalrie, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisie. Ful worthy was he in his lordès werre, And therto hadde he riden, noman ferre,1 As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse, And evere honoured for his worthynesse.

And though that he were worthy, he was wys,
And of his port as meeke as is a mayde.
He nevere yet no vileynye 2 ne sayde
In al his lyf unto no maner wight.
He was a verray parfit, gentil knyght.

With hym ther was his sone, a yong SQUIER, A lovyere and a lusty bacheler, With lokkès crulle as they were leyd in presse. Of twenty yeer of age he was I gesse. Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, And wonderly delyvere, and of greet strengthe. And he hadde ben somtyme in chyvachie, In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie, And born hym weel, as of so litel space, In hope to stonden in his lady grace. Embrouded was he, as it were a meede Al ful of fresshè flourès whyte and reede. Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day; Ho was as fressh as is the monthe of May. Short was his gowne, with slevès longe and wyde. Wel cowde he sitte on hors, and fairè ryde. He koudè songès make and wel endite,

At metè 1 wel ytaught was she with alle,
She leet no morsel from hir lippès falle,
Ne wette hire fyngres in hire saucè deepe.
Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe,
That no dropè ne fille up-on hire breste ;
In curteisie was set ful muchel hir leste.2
Hire over-lippè wypèd she so clene,
That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng3 sene
Of grecè, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte
Ful semèly after hir mete she raughte,1
And sikerly 5 she was of greet disport,
And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port,
And peynèd hire to countrefetè cheere
Of Court, and to ben estatlich of manere,
And to ben holden digne of reverence;
But for to speken of hire conscience,
She was so charitable and so pitous,
She wolde wepe if that she saugh a mous
Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde.
Of smalè houndès hadde she, that she fedde
With rosted flessh, or mylk and wastel-breed ;7
But soore wepte she if any of hem were deed,
Or if men smoot it with a yerdè smerte:
And al was conscience and tendre herte.

Ful semely hire wympul pynchèd was;
Hire nose tretys, hire eyèn greye as glas,
Hir mouth ful smal, and ther to softe and reed
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed;
It was almoost a spannè brood, I trowe,
For hardily she was nat undergrowe.
Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war ;
Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar

A peire of bedès gauded 10 al with grene;
And ther-on heng a broch of gold ful schene,
On which ther was first write a crowned A,
And after, Amor vincit omnia.

Another Nonnè with hire hadde she,

write.

A CLERK ther was of Oxenford also
That un-to logyk hadde longe ygo.
And leenè was his hors as is a rake,
And he nas nat right fat, I undertake,
But looked holwe, and ther to sobrely;
Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy,11
For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice,
Ne was so worldly to have office;

For hymn was levere have at his beddes heed
Twenty bookès, clad in blak or reed,

Of Aristotle and his philosophie,

Than robès riche, or fithele,12 or gay sautrie. 18 But al be that he was a philosophre,

Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre;

But al that he mighte of his freendès hente,1
On bookes and his lernynge he it spente,
And bisily gan for the soulès preye

Of hem that gaf him wher with to scoleye,2
Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede,
Noght o word spak he moore than was neede,
And that was seyd in forme and reverence
And short and quyk and ful of hy sentence.
Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

A SERGEANT OF THE LAWE, war and wys, That often haddè ben at the Parvys,5 Ther was also ful riche of excellence. Discreet he was and of greet reverence; He semèd swich, hise wordès weren so wise. Justice he was ful often in Assise, By patente, and by pleyn commissioun, For his science and for his heigh renoun. Of fees and robès hadde he many oon; So gret a purchasour was nowher noon. Al was fee symple to hym in effect, His purchasyng myghte nat ben infect.7 Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,8 And yet he semèd bisier than he was.

9

A good man was ther of religioun, And was a PoVRE PERSOUN OF A TOUN; But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk; He was also a lernèd man, a clerk That Cristès Gospel trewèly wolde preche, Hise parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. Benygne he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversitee ful pacient; And such he was y-prevèd oftè sithes.10 Ful looth were hym to cursè for his tythes, But rather wolde he geven,11 out of doute, Un-to his povrè parisshens aboute, Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce. He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunce. Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder, But he ne lafte 12 nat for reyn ne thonder, In sik nesse nor in meschief to visite The ferreste 18 in his parisshe muche and lite 14 Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf. This noble ensample to his sheepe he gaf,15 That firste he wroghte, and afterward he taughte.

Now have I toold you shortly in a clause
The staat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause
Why that assembled was this compaignye
In Southwerk at this gentil hostelrye,
That highte the Tabard, fastè by the Belle.
But now is tymè to yow for to telle
How that we baren us that ilke nyght,
Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght,
And after wol I telle of our viage,
And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage.

But first, I pray yow of your curteisye,
That ye narette it nat my vileinye,"
Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere,
To tellè yow hir wordès and hir cheere;
Ne thogh I speke hir wordès proprely.
For this ye knowen al so wel as I,
Whoso shal telle a tale after a man,
He moote reherce, as ny as evere he kan
Everich a word, if it be in his charge,
Al speke he never so rudèliche or large;
Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe,
Or feyne thyng, or fyndè wordès newe.

He may nat spare al thogh he were his brother,
He moot as wel seye o word as another.
Crist spak hym self ful brode in hooly writ
And wel ye woot no vileynye is it.
Eek Plato seith, who so can hym rede,
"The wordès moote be cosyn to the dede."

5

Also I prey yow to forgeve it me,

Al have I nat set folk in hir degree
Heere in this tale, as that they scholde stonde;
My wit is short, ye may wel understonde.

Greet chiere made oure host us everichon,
And to the soper sette he us anon
And served us with vitaille at the beste.
Strong was the wyn and wel to drynke us leste."
A semely man OURE HOOST he was withalle
For to han been a marchal in an halle;
A large man he was with eyen stepe,
A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe :
Boold of his speche, and wys and wel ytaught,
And of manhod hym lakkede right naught.
Eek therto he was right a myrie 7 man,
And after soper pleyen he bygan,
And spak of myrthè amonges othere thinges,
Whan that we haddè maad our rekenynges;
And seydè thus: "Lo, lordynges, trewèly
Ye ben to me right welcome hertèly:

For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,
I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye
Atones in this herberwe as is now.