And the hush of her lip seemed sweet as the Nor in the swaying of the summer trees,
Et remigem cantus hortatur.
FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?— There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. But when the wind blows off the shore Oh! sweetly we 'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Utawa's tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers- Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs! Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past!
EGYPTIAN SERENADE. SING again the song you sung When we were together youngWhen there were but you and I Underneath the summer sky.
Sing the song, and o'er and o'er, Though I know that nevermore Will it seem the song you sung When we were together young.
GBORGE WILLIAM CURTIS,
TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.
The wind may be enunored of a flower,
The ocean of the green and laughing shore, The silver lightning of a lofty tower- But must not with too near a love adore;
Or flower, and margin, and cloud-capped tower,
Love and delight shall with delight devour!
TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.
MERRY Margaret,
As midsummer flower
Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower; With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning- In everything Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower; As patient and as still, And as full of good will, As fair Isiphil, Coliander,
Sweet Pomander,
Good Cassander; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought; Far may be sought Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon,
Or hawk of the tower.
WHO is Sylvia? what is she, That all the swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise, is she;
The heavens such grace did lend her That she might adored be.
Is she kind, or is she fair?
For beauty lives with kindness. Love does to her eyes repair
To help him of his blindnessAnd, being helped, inhabits there.
Then to Sylvia let us sing
That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling; To her let us garlands bring.
SHE walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meets in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less
Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her faceWhere thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
1Hоu hast beauty bright and fair, Manner noble, aspect free. Eyes that are untouched by care: What then do we ask from thee? Hermione, Hermione?
Thou hast reason quick and strong, Wit that envious men admire, And a voice, itself a song!
What then can we still desire? Hermione, Hermione?
Something thou dost want, O queen! (As the gold doth ask alloy), Tears-amid thy laughter seen, Pity mingling with thy joy. This is all we ask from thee, Hermione, Hermione!
DROOP, droop no more, or hang the head, Ye roses almost withered!
New strength and newer purple get, Each hero declining violet!
O primroses! let this day be
A resurrection unto ye,
And to all flowers allied in blood, Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood. For health on Julia's cheek hath shed Claret and cream commingled; And those her lips do now appear As beams of coral but more clear. ROBERT HERRICK.
O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestry
There's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree.
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet.
Tis like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;
There's crimson buds, and white and blue- The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers. There's fairy tulips in the east- The garden of the sun; The very streams reflect the hues, And blossom as they run; While morn opes like a crimson rose, Still wet with pearly showers: Then, lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers!
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. SWEET Highland girl! a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower; Thrice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head. And these gray rocks; that household lawr. Those trees-a veil just half withdrawn: This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake: This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode- In truth, together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream— Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep. But, O fair creature! in the light Of common day so heavenly bright--- I bless thee, vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away; For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and homebred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here, scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness;
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread; Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech- A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life; So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee, who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell- Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality. Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father-anything to thee!
Now thanks to heaven, that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place! Joy have I had; and, going hence,
I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes. Then why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her, To give new pleasure like the past— Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall- And thee, the spirit of them all!
THE SOLITARY REAPER. BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; Oh listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands;
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring time from the cuckoo bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago;
Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, or may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work And o'er her sickle bending;- I listened motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more.
"PROUD MAISIE IS IN THE WOOD."
PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.
"Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" -"When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye."
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