169

170

S

SWEET EVENING HOUR

WEET evening hour! sweet evening hour! that calms the air and shuts the flower, that brings the wild bee to its nest,

the infant to its mother's breast.

Sweet hour! that bids the labourer cease,

that gives the weary team release,

and leads them home, and crowns them there

with rest and shelter, food and care.

O season of soft sounds and hues,
of twilight walks among the dews,
of feelings calm and converse sweet,
and thoughts too shadowy to repeat!
yes, lovely hour! thou art the time
when feelings flow and wishes climb,
when timid souls begin to dare,
and God receives and answers prayer.

SPRING

WEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,

SWEET of a rg child, delightful Spring!

whose unshorn locks with leaves
and swelling buds are crowned;

from the green islands of eternal youth
(crowned with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade)
turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou, whose powerful voice,

more sweet than softest touch of Doric reed
or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,
and through the stormy deep

breathe thy own tender calm.

Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers
that drop their sweetness on the infant buds;
and silent dews that swell

the milky ear's green stem.

171 O nymph! approach, while yet the temperate sun, with bashful forehead, through the cool moist air throws his young maiden beams,

and with chaste kisses wooes

the earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade protects thy modest blooms

from his severer blaze.

Sweet is thy reign, but short: the red dog-star
shall scorch thy tresses; and the mower's sithe
thy greens, thy flowerets all,
remorseless shall destroy.

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
for, O! not all that Autumn's lap contains,
nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
can aught for thee atone.

A. L. BARBAULD

172

WH

FITZEUSTACE'S SONG

WHERE shall the lover rest,
whom the fates sever

from his true maiden's breast,

parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high,

sounds the far billow,

where early violets die

under the willow.

There through the summer-day
cool streams are laving;
there, while the tempests sway,
scarce are boughs waving;
there thy rest shalt thou take,
parted for ever,

never again to wake

never, O never!

173 Where shall the traitor rest,
he, the deceiver,

who could win maiden's breast,
ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

borne down by the flying, where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying.

F. S. II.

5

174

Her wing shall the eagle flap

o'er the false-hearted;

his warm blood the wolf shall lap
ere life be parted:
shame and dishonour sit

by his grave ever;
blessing shall hallow it

never, O never!

SIR W. SCOTT

OCTOBER WINDS

CTOBER winds, wi' biting breath,
now nip the leaf that's yellow fading;
nae gowans glint upon the green,

alas! they're co'er'd wi' winter's cleeding.
As through the woods I musing gang,
nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes,
save little Robin's lanely sang,

wild warbling where the burnie gushes.

The sun is jogging down the brae,

dimly through the mist he's shining, and cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass, as day resigns his throne to e'ening. Oft let me walk at twilight grey,

to view the face of dying nature, till spring again with mantle green delights the heart o' ilka creature.

J. SCADLOCK

175

TO MEMORY

MEMORY, celestial maid,

who glean'st the flow'rets cropt by time, and, suffering not a leaf to fade,

preserv'st the blossoms of our prime:
bring, bring those moments to my mind,
when life was new, and all was kind;
and bring that garland to my sight,

with which my favour'd crook was bound:
and bring that wreath of roses bright,
which then my festive temples crown'd,

176

and once more to my ear convey
the strains that wak'd a happier day;

and sketch with care the Muses' bower;
nor yet omit a single flower,

of all that fling their sweetness round,
and seem to consecrate the ground!

as Time or Fortune could not rust;
so firm, that lovers might
have read thy story in my dust,

and crowned thy name

with laurel verdant as thy youth,
whilst the shrill voice of Fame
spread wide thy beauty and my truth.

This thou hast lost;

for all true lovers, when they find
that my just aims were crost,
will speak thee lighter than the wind.

T. STANLEY

177

HORATIVS COCLES

WHEN the oldest cask is opened,

and the largest lamp is lit;

when the chestnuts glow in the embers,
and the kid turns on the spit;
when young and old in circle
around the firebrands close;

when the girls are weaving baskets,
and the lads are shaping bows;

when the goodman mends his armour,
and trims his helmet's plume;
when the goodwife's shuttle merrily
goes flashing through the loom;

with weeping and with laughter

still is the story told,

how well Horatius kept the bridge

in the brave days of old.

178

I

179

LUCY

LORD MACAULAY

TRAVELLED among unknown men

in lands beyond the sea;

nor, England! did I know till then
what love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
nor will I quit thy shore

a second time; for still I seem
to love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
the joy of my desire;

and she I cherished turned her wheel
beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
the bowers where Lucy played;

and thine too is the last green field
that Lucy's eyes surveyed.

W. WORDSWORTH

WHAT

LOVE AND MUSIC

HAT woke the buried sound that lay
in Memnon's harp of yore?

what spirit on its viewless way

along the Nile's green shore?

Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
and not the lightning's fire;

but sunlight's torch, the kind, the warm

this, this awoke the lyre.

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour

thus music forth on life

like a sweet voice prevailing o'er

the truant sounds of strife?