164

TO-MORROW In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,

May my lot no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair can 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.

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With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade

too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail ;

10 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,

Nor what honours await him to-morrow.

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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.

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And when I at last must throw off this frail covering

Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep

hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again :

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, 29

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare

to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.

J. COLLINS.

165

Life ! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part ;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.

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Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dearPerhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; -Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning

A. L BARBAULD.

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THE GOLDEN TREASURY

BOOK FOURTH

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166 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S

HOMER
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : * Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmiseSilent, upon a peak in Darien.

J. KEATS.

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167
ODE ON THE POETS
Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new ?

169

133

Ga

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Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon ;
With the noise of fountains wond'rous
And the parle of voices thund'rous ;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns ;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not ;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, trancéd thing,
But divine melodious truth;
Philosophic numbers smooth;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.

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Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week ;
Of their sorrows and delights ;
Of their passions and their spites ;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim :-
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.

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Bards of Passion and of Mirth Ye have left your souls on earth ! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!

V

168

LOVE

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All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I

Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay

Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene

Had blended with the lights of eve ;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve ! She lean'd against the arméd man,

The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listen'd to my lay,

Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own,

My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving storyAn old rude song, that suited well

That ruin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
For well she knew I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he woo'd

The Lady of the Land.

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