244 245 If a star were confin'd into a tomb, her captive flames must needs burn there; but when the hand that lockt her up gives room, she'll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all created glories under thee, resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill or else remove me hence unto that hill H. VAUGHAN INSENSIBILITY TO GOD'S MERCIES HUES of the rich unfolding porno that, ere the glorious sun be born, by some soft touch invisible around his path are taught to swell;— thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay, ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, why waste your treasures of delight THE SEAMEN'S SONG 'ER the rolling waves we go, to quell with fire and sword the foe, J. KEBLE 246 Sailing to each foreign shore, Noble-hearted seamen are In loyalty they do abound, THE LIVING AUTHOR'S EPITAPH FROM life's superfluous cares enlarg'd, his debt of human toil discharg'd, bring flowers, the short-liv'd roses bring, and sweets around the poet strow, J. ADDISON 247 L' HYMN OF PAN IQUID Peneus was flowing, in Pelion's shadow, outgrowing the light of the dying day, speeded with my sweet pipings. 248 249 I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the dædal Earth, and then I changed my pipings,— I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed: it breaks in our bosom and then we bleed: JUNO'S OFFER TO PARIS ET ambition fire thy mind, P. B. SHELLEY LET anu went born o'er men to reign; not to follow flocks design'd, scorn thy crook and leave the plain. Let not toils of empire fright, Shepherd, if thou'lt yield the prize, BUT THE WINTER OF LIFE W. CONGREVE OUT lately seen in gladsome green through gentle showers the laughing flowers in double pride were gay: but now our joys are fled, on winter blasts awa'! yet maiden May, in rich array, 250 251 But my white pow, nae kindly thowe my trunk of eild, but buss or bield, Oh, age has weary days and nights o' sleepless pain! HUSH, SWEET LUTE R. BURNS HUSH, Sweet Lute, thy songs remind me of past joys, now turn'd to pain; of ties that long have ceas'd to bind me, of bright hopes but born to die. Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me, Since no time can e'er recover love's sweet light when once 'tis set,— better to weep such pleasures over, INDIFFERENCE TO FAME T. MOORE H! who can tell how hard it is to climb AH the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ; ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime has felt the influence of malignant star, and wag'd with fortune an eternal war; checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, in life's low vale remote has pined alone, then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown! And yet the languor of inglorious days not equally oppressive is to all: him, who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise, There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call, health, competence and peace. J. BEATTIE HERE be none of Beauty's daughters 252 THERE with a magic like thee; and like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me: so the spirit bows before thee like the swell of Summer's ocean. 253 LORD BYRON THE POET'S RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD HUS, while I ape the measure wild THU of tales that charmed me yet a child, Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, by the green hill and clear blue heaven. SIR W. SCOTT |