One while a scorching indignation burns GEORGE WITHER, 1588-1667. SONG. Composed by Robert Duke of Normandy, when a prisoner in Cardiff Castle, and addressed to an old oak, growing in an ancient camp within view from the tower in which he was confined. Imitated by Bishop Heber. Oak, that stately and alone On the war-worn mound hast grown, And dyed thy tender root in red; Oak, thou hast sprung for many a year, Oak, from the mountain's airy brow, And merchants hail the well-known tree, Woe, woe to him whose birth is high, For peril waits on royalty! Now storms have bent thee to the ground, And envious ivy clips thee round; And shepherd hinds in wanton play REGINALD HEBER. ROBERT OF NORMANDY, about 1107. TO A MOUNTAIN-DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW, APRIL, 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, When upward springing, blythe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield, O' clod or stane, There in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! And guileless breast; Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, To mis'ry's brink; Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He ruin'd sink. Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Stern ruin's plowshare drives, elate, Till, crush'd beneath the furious weight, ROBERT BURNS, 1750-1796. MOSSGIEL. "There," said a stripling, pointing with much pride Beneath the random field of clod or stone, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850. THE FOREST-LEAVES IN AUTUMN. FROM "THE CHRISTIAN YEAR." Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun; Now the tir'd hunter winds a parting note, How like decaying life they seem to glide! And yet no second spring have they in store; But where they fall forgotten, to abide Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing; A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold; Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around Man's portion is to die and rise again Yet he complains; while these unmurmuring part BOHEMIAN ANCIENT SONG. O ye forests, dark-green forests, Why in summer, and in winter, Are ye green and blooming? JOHN KEBLE. But now tell me, good folk, tell me, Ah! where is my dear father? Woe! he lies deep buried. Where my mother? O good mother! O'er her grows the grass! Brothers have I not, nor sisters, And my lad is gone! Translated by TALVI. LANDSCAPE AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. I wake, I rise; from end to end, Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that doth not breathe No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw, That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor rivulet trickling from the rock, Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves From left to right through meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day; I think once more he seems to die. ALFRED TENNYSON. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine is, too, the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed! W. WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850. |