THE REV. GEORGE CORNISH.

TO THE REDBREAST

Unheard in Summer's flaring ray,

Pour forth thy notes, sweet singer, Wooing the stillness of the autumn day, Bid it a moment linger,

Nor fly

Too soon from Winter's scowling eye.

The blackbird's song, at even-tide,
And hers, who gay ascends,
Filling the heavens far and wide,
Are sweet. But none so blends
As thine

With calm decay, and peace divine.

J. GIBSON LOCKHART. 1794-1854

LINES

When youthful faith hath fled,
Of loving take thy leave;
Be constant to the dead-
The dead cannot deceive.

Sweet modest flowers of Spring,
How fleet your balmy day!
And man's brief year can bring
No secondary May.

No earthly burst again

Of gladness out of gloom
Fond hope and vision vain,
Ungrateful to the tomb.

But 'tis an old belief

That on some solemn shore,

Beyond the sphere of grief,

Dear friends shall meet once more.

Beyond the sphere of time,

And Sin and Fate's control,

Serene in endless prime

Of body and of soul.

That creed I fain would keep,

That hope I'll not forego,

Eternal be the sleep,

Unless to waken so,

GEORGE DARLEY. 1795-1846

"IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND

It is not beauty I demand,

A crystal brow, the moon's despair,
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.

Tell me not of your starry eyes,

Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed :-

A blooming pair of vermeil cheeks,
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,

A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers.

These are but gauds: nay, what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean stream,
Whose brink, when your adventurer slips,
Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks but ensigns oft
That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;

Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn,

With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows there's nought within ;
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Syren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never link'd with error find,-

One in whose gentle bosom I

Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly

That hides his murmurs in the rose,

My earthly comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be,

That, when my spirit wound above,

Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

1795-1881

SPEECH OF THE ERDGEIST IN "FAUST"

In Being's floods, in Action's storm,

I walk, and work, above, beneath,
Work and weave in endless motion !

Birth and Death

An infinite Ocean;

A seizing and giving

The fire of the Living:

'Tis thus at the roaring Loom of Time I ply, And weave for God the garment thou seest Him by.

TO-DAY

So here hath been dawning

Another blue day :

Think wilt thou let it

Slip useless away.

Out of Eternity

This new is born;
Into Eternity

At night will return.

Behold it aforetime

No eye ever did;
So soon it for ever

From all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning

Another blue day:
Think wilt thou let it

Slip useless away.