டப POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. She kept with care her beauties rare For her heart was cold to all but gold, Now walking there was one more fair, 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; But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. THE DREAMER. 66 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, Then, when the gale is sighing, 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 But only melancholy, O, sweetest melancholy ! 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! Is not so sad as life ;- Or with such sorrow rife. Fall, fall, thou withered leaf ! Nor kills such lovely flowers; When dark misfortune lowers. Hush hush! thou trembling lyre, 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, 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: Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, 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, The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, And must have all things in my order placed. 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; And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; GEORGE CRABBE. TOMMY'S DEAD. You may give over plough, 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, I doubt she's badly bred; Stop the mill to-morn, boys, There's no sign of grass, boys, You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, And the beasts must be fed : 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, And the lily as pale as she, boys, There's something not right, boys, The ground is cold to my tread, The hills are wizen and thin, There's nothing but cinders and sand, The rat and the mouse have fed, And the summer's empty and cold; There's a mildew and a mould, The sun's going out overhead, And Tommy's dead. What am I staying for, boys, 'Tis fifty years and more, boys, She was always sweet, boys, She knew she'd never see 't, boys, And she stole off to bed; For he 'd come home, he said, But it's time I was gone, boys, |