High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be, And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet More oft than to a chamber-melody,
Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet; My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;
Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed; By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot; Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed; And that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, - Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss! Sir Philip Sidney
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:
I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away :
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! William Wordsworth
Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young
And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Arthur Hugh Clough, Died 1861 R. L. Stevenson, Born 1850
As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
- In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain Knight; And naebody kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."
Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? O generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his Maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new-old sign Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there!
ON THE LIFE MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
This bronze doth keep the very form and mould Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he:
That brow all wisdom, all benignity;
That human, humourous mouth; those cheeks that hold Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold; That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea For storms to beat on; the lone agony Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men As might some prophet of the elder day,— Brooding above the tempest and the fray With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. A power was his beyond the touch of art Or armed strength: his pure and mighty heart. Richard Watson Gilder
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