TO-MORROW

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my fate no less fortunate be

Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,

And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for To-morrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail;

And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail :

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;

I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,

Or what honours may wait him To-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
By the sound of a murmuring rill:

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,

With my friends may I share what To-day may afford,
And let them spread the table To-morrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring
Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,

On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;

As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare To-day, May become Everlasting To-morrow.

John Collins

I WISH I WERE BY THAT DIM LAKE

I wish I were by that dim Lake,
Where sinful souls their farewell take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,

Deceitful world, my home should be;
Where, come what might of gloom and pain,
False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound

Of unseen waters falling round;

The dry leaves quiv'ring o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead!

These, ay, these shall wean

My soul from life's deluding scene,

And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom,

Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night
Would win repose, first quench the light,
So must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,
Unmoved by either joy or woe,

Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown
Within their current turns to stone.

Thomas Moore

LULLABY

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
Rock them, rock a lullaby.

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.

Rock them, rock a lullaby.

Thomas Dekker

HAVE YOU A DESIRE?

Have you a desire to see

The glorious Heaven's epitome?

Or an abstract of the Spring?

Adonis' garden? or a Thing

Fuller of wonder? Nature's shop displayed, Hung with the choicest pieces she has made? Here behold it open laid.

Or else would you bless your eyes

With a type of Paradise?

Or behold how poets feign

Jove to sit amidst his train?

Or see (what made Actæon rue)
Diana 'mongst her virgin crew? —
Lift up your eyes and view.

Peter Hausted

TO NIGHT

Swiftly walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,-
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand
Come, long sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sighed for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried,
"Wouldst thou me?"

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noon-tide bee,

"Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?" And I replied,
No, not thee!"

66

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon

Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

DREAM-PEDLARY

If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,

That shakes from Life's fresh crown

Only a rose-leaf down,

If there were dreams to sell,

Merry and sad to tell,

And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?

Such pearl from Life's fresh crown

Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.

Thomas Lovell Beddoes