Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of Venison ?
O generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his Maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day Mine host's signboard flew away Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story- Said he saw you in your glory Underneath a new-old Sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac !
Souls of Poets dead and gone What Elysium have ye knownHappy field or mossy cavernChoicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?
J. KEATS
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush
Singing so rarely.
“Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?" “When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye."
Who makes the bridal bed,
“ Birdie, say truly ? ” .“ The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly.
* The glowworm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady ; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.”
SIR W. Scott.
231. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
One more Unfortunate Weary of breath Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements ; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful : Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses ; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?
Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other ?
Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun ! O! it was pitiful ! Near a whole city fuli, Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed :
Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver ; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurl'd- Any where, any where Out of the world !
In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran, Over the brink of it, Picture it, think of it, Dissolute Man ! Lave in it, drink of it Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose thenı ; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. -Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast !
Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour !
T. HOOD.
O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom ! On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom :
And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
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