The Lotus-eaters. Hateful is the dark-blue sky Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, All things are taken from us, and become In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence, ripen, fall, and cease. Give us long rest, or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. TENNYSON. Amor's Pfeil. Amor's Pfeil hat Widerspitzen; Und erduld' ein wenig Schmerz: BUERGER. Lotophagorum Vota. Est ipse pontus taedio et imminens Gens terimus peritura vitam? Tandem precamur, qvisqvis es, abstine Functa brevi labra conticebunt. Qvid non caducum? Cur brevis inchoet Cessemus. Ecqvid profuit invidis Nil non quiescit: nec nisi funeri W. G. C. Amoris Sagitta. Ιθὺ παλιγνάμπτοισιν Ἔρως καλάμοισιν ἰάπτει, τλῆθί μιν, οὐ πικρῶς κείσεται ἡ βελόνη. ὃς δέ μιν ὑβρίζων πειρᾷ κατὰ κάρτος ἀποσπᾶν, ἄθλιε, μὴ τὴν σὴν ἐξερύσῃς κραδίην. H. J. H. The Poor Scholar's Song. Death, old fellow! have we then. Come at last so near each other? All those merry days are gone, Gone with cash and health, old fellow, When I read long days and nights, And sometimes (with a friend) got mellow. Newton! Euclid! fine old ghosts! Noble books of old Greek learning! Ah, ye left huge aches behind, Head and heart and brain all burning. How I toiled! For one now fled I woke, and found my life-a vapour. Yet I hoped (ah, laugh not now!) For wealth and health and fame-the bubble! So I climbed up wisdom's steeps, And got a fall, boy, for my trouble. Now all's over. No one helped, No one cheered my strong endeavour; So I sank, and called on thee, And thou 'lt be my friend for ever. BARRY CORNWALL. Docta Paupertas. Mors, geniale caput, non adspernata vocantem, Fugit laeta salus, aurum mihi fugit, et una Fugerunt hilares iam, mihi crede, dies, Quando ego per longas luces noctesqve legebam, Poclaqve cum socio rara levamen erant. Neutone O tuqve Euclidae venerabilis umbra, Sed tamen inmensus, spatiis inclusus iniqvis, Sed vel adhuc trepidam (noli ridere) fovebant Actum est! nemo mihi Macte adclamabat et Euge, Sic ego deficiens aegra te voce vocavi, K. The Skylark. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy, whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. |