'His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, So we may mak our dinner sweet. 'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pick out his bonny 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, Anon. F CIX TO BLOSSOMS AIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'T was pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave : And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. R. Herrick CX TO DAFFODILS AIR Daffodils, we weep to see FA You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Until the hasting day But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we We have short time to stay, as you, As quick a growth to meet decay As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. R. Herrick CXI THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN H OW vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergéd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of Repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen When we have run our passion's heat Apollo hunted Daphne so What wondrous life is this I lead! Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less The mind, that ocean where each kind To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot My soul into the boughs does glide; Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate : After a place so pure and sweet, How well the skilful gardener drew How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers! A. Marvell CXII L'ALLEGRO HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne, |