Listen! from the forest boughs To the proud rose blossoming. And now beneath thy lattice dear! Like the rose disdaining. From her chamber in the skies Shouts the lark at break of morning, And when day-light flies Comes the raven's warning. This of gloom and that of mirth Barry Cornwall. PINE....Pity. Naught is there under Heaven's wide hollowness Which I do owe unto all womankind, Feel my heart pierced with so great agony, Like Ariadne, when in pale despair The Athenian left her, so sad Eva pined, And so she went complaining to the air, Spenser. And gave her tresses to the careless wind:— Over the grassy meads,—beside lone streams, To perilous heights which no weak step could reach, She wandered, feeding her unearthly dreams With musing, and would move the tremulous beech And shuddering aspen with imploring speech; For nothing that did live, save they (who sighed) Pitied the downfall of her amorous pride. Barry Cornwall. |