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Who doth ambition shun,
and loves to lie in the sun,
seeking the food he eats,
and pleased with what he gets,
come hither, come hither, come hither;
here shall he see no enemy,
but winter and rough weather.
VERY mortal, small or great,
his subtle cobweb weaves;
and seated there within elate
himself a King believes,
and drives his little feelers out
to strike whoever dares to doubt.
And when, at last, the besom strong
sweeps all the work away,
it seems an outrage and a wrong
unheard of till to-day;
as if that stroke had downward hurled
the noblest palace in the world.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER
AIR summer droops, droop men and beasts
so fair a summer look for never more:
all good things vanish less than in a day,
peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.
Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year;
the earth is hell when thou leavest to appear.
What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst,
upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed ?
O trees consume your sap in sorrow's source,
streams turn to tears your tributary course.
Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year;
the earth is hell when thou leavest to appear.
HERE the angelic hosts adore Thee,
Thou o'er earth and heav'n dost reign, at Thy word they rose before Thee,
and Thy breath doth them sustain. From high angels Thee attending,
Thou dost faithful guardians send; in mysterious ways descending,
may they keep us to the end :
keep us, else with wiles deceiving
the persuader of all ill,
round his deadly meshes weaving,
the lost soul will rend and kill.
Τίκτει δέ τε θνατοίσιν Ειράνα μεγάλα
πλούτον και μελιγλώσσων αοιδάν ανθεα,
δαιδαλέων τ’ επί βωμών θεοίσιν αίθεσθαι βοών
ξανθά φλογί μηρα τανυτρίχων τε μήλων,
γυμνασίων τε νέους αυλών τε και κώμων μέλειν.
έν δε σιδηροδετούς πόρπαξιν αιθάν
αραχναν ιστοί πέλονται:
έγχεά τε λογχωτα ξίφεά τ' άμφάκεα δάμναται ευρώς:
χαλκεάν δ' ουκ έστι σαλπίγγων κτύπος:
ουδε συλάται μελίφρων ύπνος από γλεφάρων,
αμον ός θάλπει κέαρ.
συμποσίων δ' έρατών βρίθοντ’ αγυιαι παιδικοί θ' ύμ-
Ταν άλα ταν γλαυκάν όταν άνεμος άτρέμα βάλλη,
των φρένα ταν δειλαν ερεθίζομαι, ουδ' έτι μοι γά
εντί φίλα, ποθίει δε πολυ πλέον ά με γαλάνα.
αλλ' όταν αχήση πολιος βυθός, α δε θάλασσα
κύρτον επαφρίζη, τα δε κύματα μακρα μεμύκη,
ες χθόνα παπταίνω και δένδρεα, ταν δ' άλα φεύγω,
γά δέ μοι ασπαστα, χα δάσκιος εύαδες ύλα,
ένθα και, ήν πνευση πολυς ώνεμος, α πίτυς άδει.
ή κακόν ο γριπευς ζώει βίον, ώ δόμος α ναύς,
και πόνος έντι θάλασσα και ιχθύες α πλάνος άγρα.
αυταρ εμοί γλυκύς ύπνος υπό πλατάνω βαθυφύλλω,
και παγάς φίλ' εμοί τάς εγγύθεν άχον ακούειν,
& τέρπει ψοφέoισα τον άγριον, ουχί ταράσσει.
ING his praises that doth keep
flocks from harm,
Pan, the father of our sheep:
and arm in arm
tread we softly in a round,
whilst the hollow neighbouring ground
fills the music with her sound.
Pan, O great god Pan, to thee
thus do we sing!
thou that keep’st us chaste and free
as the young spring;
ever be thy honour spoke,
from that place the Morn is broke
to that place Day doth unyoke!
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER
F. S. 11.
THE POET'S OBSEQUIES
ALL it not vain :—they do not err,
who say, that, when the poet dies,
mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
and celebrates his obsequies ;
who say, tall cliff and cavern lone
for the departed bard make moan;
that mountains weep in crystal rill;
that flowers in tears of balm distil;
through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
and oaks in deeper groan reply ;
and rivers teach their rushing wave
to murmur dirges round his grave.
SIR W. SCOTT
H, how hard
the one just suited to our mind;
and if that one should be
false, unkind, or found too late,
what can we do but sigh at fate,
and sing ‘Woe's me—Woe's me!'
Love's a boundless burning waste,
where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
and still more seldom flee
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
yet somehow Love a something brings
that's sweet-ev'n when we sigh ‘Woe's me!'
THEN mirth is full and free,
some sudden gloom shall be;
when haughty power mounts high,
the watcher's axe is nigh;
all growth has bound: when greatest found,
it hastes to die
When the rich town, that long
has lain its huts among,
builds court and palace vast
and vaunts,-it shall not last!
Bright tints that shine are but a sign
of summer past.
And when thine eye surveys,
with fond adoring gaze,
and yearning heart, thy friend,-
Love to its grave doth tend.
All gifts below, save Truth, but grow
towards an end.
OW sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
falling asleep in a half-dream!
to dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
to hear each other's whispered speech;
eating the Lotos day by day,
to watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
and tender curving lines of creamy spray;
to lend our hearts and spirits wholly
to the influence of mild-minded melancholy:
to muse and brood and live again in memory,
with the old faces of our infancy
heaped over with a mound of grass,
two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass
THERE is each boasted favourite of Fame,
whose wide expanded name fill’d the loud echoes of the world around, while shore to shore returned the lengthened sound ? The warriors where, who, in triumphal pride, with weeping Freedom to the chariot tied, to' glory's Capitolian temple rode? In undistinguished dust together trod,
victors and vanquished mingle in the grave;
worms prey upon the mouldering god,
nor know a Cæsar from his slave;
in empty air their mighty deeds exhale,
a school-boy's wonder, or an evening tale.