Oh, for wrecked gold, from depths for ever calm, 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 Obliterate the rolls of human fame. Eugene Lee-Hamilton [1845-1907] MAIDENHOOD MAIDENHOOD MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes, Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Standing, with reluctant feet, Gazing, with a timid glance, Deep and still, that gliding stream Then why pause with indecision, Seest thou shadows sailing by, Hearest thou voices on the shore, Oh, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares! Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Gather, then, each flower that grows, Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 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 Mistress Margaret Hussey The glorious land of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, And nearer he's to setting, That age is best which is the first, Then be not coy, but use your time, 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 Far, far passing Or suffice to write Or hawk of the tower, Coliander, Sweet pomander, Far may be sought, Or hawk of the tower. John Skelton [1460?-1529] ON HER COMING TO LONDON WHAT'S she, so late from Penshurst come, Or 'tis the Cyprian Queen of Love Or is't not Juno, Heaven's great dame, Or Cynthia, that huntress bold, No, none of those, yet one that shall 'Tis Dorothée, a maid high-born, And lovely as the blushing morn, |