K

They bolted on me thus, and lo!

Each ready with a plaintive whine ;

Said I,

"Not half an hour

ago

Your Mother has had alms of mine."

"That cannot be," one answer'd, "She is dead."

Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."
"Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie;
"It was your Mother, as I say-"

And in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado,

Off to some other play they both together flew.

2.

TO A SKY-LARK.

Up with me! up with me into the clouds! For thy song, Lark, is strong;

Up with me, up with me into the clouds! Singing, singing,

With all the heav'ns about thee ringing,

Lift me, guide me, till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walk'd through wildernesses dreary,

And today my heart is weary;

Had I now the soul of a Faery,

Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;

Up with me, up with me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky!

Joyous as Morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning; Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest: And, though little troubled with sloth,

Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth

To be such a Traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver'

With a soul as strong as a mountain River, Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,

Joy and jollity be with us both!
Hearing thee, or else some other,
As merry a Brother,

I on the earth will go plodding on,

By myself, chearfully, till the day is done.

3.

"With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky,
How silently, and with how wan a face!" *
Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race?
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chace,
Must blow tonight his bugle horn. Had I
The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:
And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,
Should sally forth to keep thee company.

What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv❜n
Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!
But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be giv'n,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

* From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney.