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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.
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.
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 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.
Life ! I know not what thou art,
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.
THE GOLDEN TREASURY
166 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
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.
Yes, and those of heaven commune
Thus ye live on high, and then
Bards of Passion and of Mirth Ye have left your souls on earth ! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!
40 J. KEATS.
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,
Beside the ruin'd tower.
Had blended with the lights of eve ;
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 ;
But gaze upon her face.
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
The Lady of the Land.