TALK not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? 'T is but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is hoary What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? O Fame! - if I e'er took delight in thy praises, There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. Lord Byron O CLXX THE OUTLAW BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And as I rode by Dalton-Hall A Maiden on the castle-wall 'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed I'd rather rove with Edmund there 'I read you by your bugle-horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a ranger sworn To keep the king's greenwood.' 'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 't is at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, Yet sung she 'Brignall banks are fair, I would I were with Edmund there To reign his Queen of May! 'With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, That lists the tuck of drum.' Yet mickle must the maiden dare 'Maiden! a nameless life I lead, And when I'm with my comrades met What once we were we all forget, Chorus Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer-queen. Sir W. Scott T CLXXI HERE be none of Beauty's daughters And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: And the midnight moon is weaving So the spirit bows before thee To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. Lord Byron CLXXII LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR I ARISE from dreams of Thee In the first sweet sleep of night, Has led me who knows how? The wandering airs they faint Like sweet thoughts in a dream; O beloved as thou art! O lift me from the grass! Let thy love in kisses rain P. B. Shelley CLXXIII HE walks in beauty, like the night starry And all that's best of dark and bright One shade the more, one ray the less How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. |