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As though to hoard it for the haunting elves,
The moonlight calls to this, their festal hall. [the earth
A thick, rich, grassy carpet clothes Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays
Out upon it! I have loved
And am like to love thee more,
Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover
Such a constant lover.
But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me;
Except it had been she.
Had it any been but she
And that very face,
A dozen in iter place!
WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVE R?
Why So pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Its fluted wreath, beaded beneath
with drops Of richest brown; the wild-rose
spreads its breast Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging
Has dropped its dark, long cone.
Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her.
I ritlTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HE AR T.
I prithee send me back my heart, Since I can not have thine.
For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldest thou have mine'!
Yet now I think on't. let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
Would steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out: For when I think I'm best resolved,
I then am in most doubt.
Then farewell, care, and farewell, woe.
I will no longer pine;
Earl Of Surrey (henry Howard).
THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE.
Martial, the things that do attain The happy life, be these, I find;
The riches left, not got with pain; The fruitful ground, the quiet mind:
The equal friend, no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance; Without disease, the healthful life; The household of continuance:
The mean diet, no delicate fare; True wisdom joined with simpleness;
The night discharged of all care, Where wine the wit may not oppress:
The faithful wife, without debate; Such sleeps as may beguile the night.
Content thee with thine own estate; Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.
FROM "NO AGE IS CONTENT."
I saw the little boy
In thought—how oft that he
A tall young man to be:
His bones with pains opprest,
To live and lie at rest.
The rich old man that sees
His end draw on so sore. How he would be a boy again,
To live so much the more; Whereat full oft I smiled,
To see how all these three, From boy to man, from man to boy,
Would chop and change degree.
IN PRAISE OF HIS LADY-LOVE COMPARED WITH ALL OTHERS.
Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well say'n,
Than doth the sun the candle light,
Or brightest day the darkest night.
And thereto hath a troth as just
For what she saith ye may it trust,
Ami virtues hath she many mo'
Than I with pen have skill to show.
I could rehearse, if that I would,
When she had lost the perfit mould. The like to whom she could not paint:
With wringing hands, how she did
And what she said, I know it. I.
I know she swore with raging mind, Her kingdom only set apart,
There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart;
And this was chiefly all her pain; "She could not make the like again."
Sith Nature thus gave her the praise To be the chiefest work she wrought;
In faith, methinks some better ways On your behalf might well be sought.
Than to compare, as ye have done, To match the candle with the sun.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
IN MEMORY OF BARRY CORNWALL.
In the garden of death, where the singers whose names are deathless,
One with another make music unheard of men,
And the fair eyes shine that shall weep not or change again,
Beloved of men, whose words on our lips were honey,
Like summer gone forth of the land his songs made sunny,
To the beautiful veiled bright world where the glad ghosts meet,
Child, father, bridegroom and bride, and anguish and rest,
No soul shall pass of a singer than this more blest.
Blest for the years' sweet sake that were filled and brightened,
For the souls' sake blest that heard, and their cares were lightened,
By the living and dead lips blest that have loved his name.
And clothed with their praise and crowned with their love for fame.
Ah, fair and fragrant his fame as flowers that close not,
That shrink not by day for heat or for cold by night, As a thought in the heart shall increase when the heart's self knows not,
Shall endure in our ears as a sound, in our eyes as a light;
The same year calls, and one goes hence with another,
The same year beckons, and elder with younger brother
They pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be come;
And the birds are loud, but the lips that outsang them dumb.
Time takes them home that we loved, fair names and famous,
But the flower of their souls he shall take not away to shame us,
For with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell,
Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we farewell.
FROM "A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER."
As sweet desire of day before the day,
The ghost arisen of May before the May
* Sydney Dobell died the same year.
Takes through dim air her unawakened way,
The gracious ghost of morning risen ere morn.
The fearful firstlings of the plumeless boughs
I seek thee sleeping, and awhile I see,
Fair face that art not, how thy maiden breath
Shall put at last the deadly days to death
When heaven shall hear the word that April saith,
To stir and soften all the time to tears,
With feet not swifter than those fair first years
Whose flowers revive not with thy flowers on earth.
I would not bid thee, though I might, give back
One good thing youth has given and borne away;
I crave not any comfort of the day That is not, nor on time's retrodden track Would turn to meet the white-robed hours or black
That long since left me on their mortal way;
That comes with morning from the sun to be
No flower nor hour once fallen from life's green tree,
The morning song beneath the stars that fled
With twilight through the moonless mountain air,
Sang toward the sun that was to crown his head,
Rising; the hopes that triumphed and fell dead,
These may'st thou not give back forever; these,
But flowers thou may'st, and winds, and hours of ease,
A FORSAKKN GAlWEtf.
In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead.
The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone sand. If a step should sound or a word be spoken,
Would a ghost not rise of the strange guest's hand? So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless,
Through branches and briers if a man make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless Night and day.
The dense hard passage is blind and stifled
That crawls by a track none turn to climb
Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time.
The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain.
Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not;
As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not,
Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither
Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song;
The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels
Only the wind here hovers and revels
In a round where life seems barren as death.
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,
Whose eyes went seaward, a hundred sleeping
Heart handfast in heart as they stood, " Look thither,"
For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither,
And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened,
In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened,
Or they loved their life through, and then went whither?
And were one to the end — but what end who knows? Love deep as the sea, as a rose must wither,
As the rose-red sea-weed that mocks the rose.