CCLXXI THE SCHOLAR My days among the Dead are past; Where'er these casual eyes are cast, My never-failing friends are they, With them I take delight in weal And while I understand and feel My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead; with them Their virtues love, their faults condemn, And from their lessons seek and find My hopes are with the Dead; anon Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. R. Southey CCLXXII THE MERMAID TAVERN Souls of Poets dead and gone, S Or are fruits of Paradise I have heard that on a day To a sheepskin gave the story, And pledging with contented smack Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? J. Keats CCLXXIII THE PRIDE OF YOUTH Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. Tell me, thou bonny bird, 'Who makes the bridal bed, "The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.' Sir W. Scott CCLXXIV THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS One more Unfortunate Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully; Make no deep scrutiny 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 Loop up her tresses Who was her father? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Alas! for the rarity Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Where the lamps quiver 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 Lave in it, drink of it, Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs frigidly Smooth and compose them, Dreadfully staring Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Burning insanity, Into her rest. -Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour T. Hood |