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In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity :
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them,
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look ;
But with a sweet forgetting
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy !
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passéd joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbéd sense to steal it-
Was never said in rhyme.

J. Keats


Where shall the lover rest

Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast

Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow.

Eleu loro
Soft shall be his pillow.
There through the summer day

Cool streams are laving :
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving ; There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,
Never again to wake
Never, O never !

Eleu loro
Never, O never!
Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying ;

Eleu loro
There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the falsehearted;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap

Ere life be parted :
Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it
Never, O never !

Eleu loro
Never, O never!

Sir W. Scott



O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms !

So haggard and so woe-begone ? The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.'

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful—a faery's child, ller hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild. 'I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ;
She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed

And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery's song. "She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said

“I love thee true.” “She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore ; And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

"And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all : They cried—“ La belle Dame sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall !

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam

With horrid warning gapéd wide, - And I awoke and found me here

On the cold hill's side.

' And this is why I sojourn here

Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'

J. Keats



A wcary lot is thinc, fair maid,

A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green--
No more of me you knew

My Love!
No more of me you knew.
“This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.'


He turn'd his charger as he spake

Upon the river shore,
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said ' Adieu for evermore

My Love!
And adieu for evermore.'

Sir W. Scott



When the lamp is shatter'd
The light in the dust lies dead-
When the cloud is scatter'd,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remember'd not ;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute-
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possesst.
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier ?

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