CLXXXII. WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, 1802-1839. TIME'S SONG. 'ER the level plains, where mountains greet me as I O' go, O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow, War his weary watch was keeping,-I have crushed his spear; Grief within her bower was weeping,—I have dried her tear; Pleasure caught a minute's hold,—then I hurried by, Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame? Genius said 'I live in story:' who hath heard his name? Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered 'Why so fast?' And the roses on his brow withered as I past. I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild wave's bed; I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed; Where began my wanderings? Memory will not say ! Where will rest my weary wings? Science turns away! CLXXXIII. G FUIMUS! O to the once loved bowers; Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair : Winter has been upon the leaves and flowers,— They were ! Look for the domes of kings; Lo! the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair; Oblivion sits beside them; mockery sings Waken the minstrel's lute; Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening air : Visit the great and brave; Worship the witcheries of the bright and fair. Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave ?— Speak to thine own heart; prove The secrets of thy nature. What is there? Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith, fond love,— We too, we too must fall; A few brief years to labour and to bear ;— Then comes the sexton, and the old trite tale, CLXXXIV. THOMAS LOVEll Beddoes, WOLFRAM'S DIRGE. IF thou wilt ease thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then sleep, dear, sleep; And not a sorrow 1803-1849. Hang any tear on your eyelashes; Lie still and deep, Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes The rim o' the sun to-morrow, In eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then die, dear, die; 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; And then alone, amid the beaming Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her In eastern sky. CLXXXV. SONG. A HO! A ho! Love's horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. The swan-winged horses of the skies, A ho! A ho! Love's horn doth blow, And he will out a-hawking go. The sparrows flutter round his wrist, The feathery thieves that Venus kissed The linnets seek the airy list, And swallows too, small pets of spring, Beat back the gale with swifter wing, |