YORK AND LANCASTER.

All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have,

And renowned be thy grave!

SHAKSPEARK

YORK AND LANCASTER.

If this fair rose offend thy sight,
Placed in thy bosom bare,

"Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian there.

But if thy ruby lip it spy,

As kiss it thou mayst deign,

With envy pale 'twill lose its dye,
And Yorkish turn again.

ANONYMOUS.

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out

Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming. They've hushed the minster bell:

The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast;

She comes she's here, she's past!

May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly ;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace

Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,

Like outcast spirits, who wait,

And see, through Heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

ELEGY.

SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed,
Never to be disquieted!

My last good night! Thou wilt not wake

Till I thy fate shall overtake,

Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
Marry my body to that dust

It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not faile
To meet thee in that hollow vale;
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,

And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee;
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west

Of life, almost by eight houres saile,

Than when sleep breathed his drowsie gale.

Thus from the sun my bottom steares, And my dayes compass downward bears; Nor labor I to stemme the tide

Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

TO CELIA.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, Thou, like the vanne, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory,

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.

But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe'er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution.

With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive
The crime: I am content to live

Divided, with but half a heart,

Till we shall meet and never part.

HENRY KING

TO CELIA.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.