He hath been bred too wantonly
To undertake my trade.

Why, help him to a master, then,
Quoth she, such youths be scant;
It cannot be but there be men
That such a boy do want.

Quoth I, when you your best have done,
No better way you'll find,

Than to a harper bind your son,
Since most of them are blind.
The lovely mother and the boy
Laugh'd heartily thereat,
As at some nimble jest or toy,
To hear my homely chat.

Quoth I, I pray you let me know,
Came he thus first to light,

Or by some sickness, hurt, or blow,
Deprived of his sight?

Nay, sure, quoth she, he thus was born.

'Tis strange, born blind! quoth I; I fear you put this as a scorn

On my simplicity.

Quoth she, thus blind I did him bear.

Quoth I, if't be no lie,

Then he's the first blind man, I'll swear,

E'er practis'd archery.

A man! quoth she, nay, there you miss,
He's still a boy as now,

Nor to be elder than he is
The gods will him allow.
To be no elder than he is!
Then sure he is some sprite,
I straight reply'd. Again at this
The goddess laugh'd outright.

It is a mystery to me,

An archer, and yet blind!
Quoth I again, how can it be,
That he his mark should find?

The gods, quoth she, whose will it was
That he should want his sight,
That he in something should surpass,
To recompense their spite,

Gave him this gift, though at his game
He still shot in the dark,

That he should have so certain aim,

As not to miss his mark.

By this time we were come ashore,
When me my fare she paid,

But not a word she utter'd more,
Nor had I her bewray'd.
Of Venus nor of Cupid I
Before did never hear,
But that a fisher coming by
Then told me who they were.

M. Drayton

X

SONG

Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry 'note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall we see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

W. Shakespeare

XI

LUCY GRAY

Or Solitude

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray :
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;
She dwelt on a wide moor,

-The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,

The hare upon the green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

To-night will be a stormy night—

You to the town must go;

And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow.'

'That, Father, will I gladly do!
'Tis scarcely afternoon-

The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!'

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;

He plied his work ;-and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down ;

And many a hill did Lucy climb;
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 'In heaven we all shall meet !'

-When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed;
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none !

-Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

W. Wordsworth

XII

RAIN IN SUMMER

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and the heat,
In the broad and fiery street,