99 LIFE AND DEATH LIFE! I know not what thou art, Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather. 'Tis hard to part when friends are dearPerhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear. Then steal away, give little warning, Say not good-night, but in some brighter clime Anna Lætitia Barbauld. (The Siege of Corinth.) IN the year since Jesus died for men, Riding o'er land and sailing o'er sea. We forded the river and clomb the high hill, Or stretched on the beach, or our saddles spread All our thoughts and words had scope, Toil and travel, but no sorrow. And some, or I mis-say, of neither; And some are rebels on the hills That look along Epirus' valleys, Where Freedom still at moment rallies, And pays in blood oppression's ills; But never more, ah never, we But those hardy days flew cheerily, My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main Over the earth, and through the air, A wild bird and a wanderer. Lord Byron. ΙΟΙ THE SPIRIT OF DELIGHT RARELY, rarely comest thou, Spirit of Delight! Wherefore hast thou left me now How shall ever one like me Spirit false! thou hast forgot All but those who need thee not. As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismayed; Reproach thee that thou art not near, L Let me set my mournful ditty Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of Delight! The fresh earth in new leaves dressed, Autumn evening, and the morn I love snow, and all the forms Of the radiant frost; I love waves and winds and storms,- Which is Nature's, and may be I love tranquil solitude, As is quiet, wise, and good. Between thee and me What difference? But thou dost possess I love Love, though he has wings, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee Thou art love and life! Oh come, Make once more my heart thy home! Percy Bysshe Shelley 102 THE SOLITARY REAPER BEHOLD her, single in the field, Alone she cuts, and binds the grain, No nightingale did ever chant A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard Will no one tell me what she sings? Or is it some more humble lay, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang William Wordsworth. |