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THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN
Why, Damon, with the forward day
TO-MORROW In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my lot no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea ;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
Look forward with hope for to-morrow.
With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade
too, As the sun-shine or rain may prevail ; And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade
too, With a barn for the use of the flail : A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow ; I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours await him to-morrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill ;
By the sound of a murmuring rill :
may I share what to-day may afford, And hem spread the table to-morrow, And when I at last must throw off this frail covering
Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is thread-bare to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.
Life! I know not what thou art,
Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dearPerhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; --Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time ; Say not Good Night -- but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning.
A. L. Barbauld
The Golden Treasury
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold
ODE ON THE POETS
Bards of Passion and of Mirth
-Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon ; With the noise of fountains wonderous And the parle of voices thunderous; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not ; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, trancéd thing, But divine melodious truth ; Philosophic numbers smooth ; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries. Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights ; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame ; What doth strengthen and what maim:Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new !