Oh, for wrecked gold, from depths for ever calm,
To fashion for thy name a fretted shrine;

Oh, for strange gems, still locked in virgin mine,

To stud the pyx, where thought would bring sweet psalm! I have but this small rosary of rhyme,—

No rubies but heart's drops, no pearls but tears,

To lay upon the altar of thy name,

O Mimma Bella; on the shrine that Time
Makes ever holier for the soul, while years

Obliterate the rolls of human fame.

Eugene Lee-Hamilton [1845-1907]

MAIDENHOOD

MAIDENHOOD

MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!

Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar?

Oh, thou child of many prayers!

Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares!
Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune,

Morning rises into noon,

May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered;—
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand;

Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,

On thy lips the smile of truth.

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal

Into wounds that cannot heal,

Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;

F

And that smile, like sunshine, dart

Into many a sunless heart

For a smile of God thou art.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

To Mistress Margaret Hussey

The glorious land of heaven, the sun,

The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting,

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,

You may for ever tarry.

315

Robert Herrick (1591-1674]

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY

MERRY Margaret

As midsummer flower,

Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower:

With solace and gladness,

Much mirth and no madness,

All good and no badness;

So joyously,

So maidenly,

So womanly
Her demeaning
In every thing,

Far, far passing
That I can indite,

Or suffice to write
Of merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower,
As patient and still
And as full of good will
As fair Isaphill,

Coliander,

Sweet pomander,
Good Cassander;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought,

Far may be sought,
Ere that ye can find
So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower.

John Skelton [1460?-1529]

ON HER COMING TO LONDON

WHAT'S she, so late from Penshurst come,
More gorgeous than the mid-day sun,
That all the world amazes?
Sure 'tis some angel from above,

Or 'tis the Cyprian Queen of Love
Attended by the Graces.

Or is't not Juno, Heaven's great dame,
Or Pallas armed, as on she came
To assist the Greeks in fight,

Or Cynthia, that huntress bold,
Or from old Tithon's bed so cold,
Aurora chasing night?

No, none of those, yet one that shall
Compare, perhaps exceed them all,
For beauty, wit, and birth;
As good as great, as chaste as fair,
A brighter nymph none breathes the air,
Or treads upon the earth.

'Tis Dorothée, a maid high-born, And lovely as the blushing morn,