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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 itWas never said in rhyme.
Where shall the lover rest
Whom the fates sever
Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high
Sounds the far billow,
Cool streams are laving :
Scarce are boughs waving ; There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,
He, the deceiver,
Ruin, and leave her?
Borne down by the flying,
O'er the falsehearted;
Ere life be parted :
By his grave ever ;
Sir W. Scott
LA BELLE DAJE S.VS JIERCI
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
And no birds sing
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,
And her eyes were wild.
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 swe
And honey wild and manna-clew, 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.'
A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine !
And press the rue for wine.
A feather of the blue,
The rose is budding fain;
Ere we two meet again.'
He turn'd his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,
Sir W. Scott
THE FLIGHT OF LOVE
When the lamp is shatter'd