WINTER.

icicles hang by the wall,

WHEN And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note!

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

William Shakespeare.

CHERRY RIPE.

HERE is a garden in her face
THE Where roses and white lilies blow;

A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry.

Bathing

Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds filled with snow:
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand,
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
-Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry!

227

Thomas Campion.

BATHING.

May winds gently lift the willow leaves;

THE Around the rushy point comes weltering slow

The brimming stream; alternate sinks and heaves
The lily-bud, where small waves ebb and flow.
Willow herb and meadow sweet!

Ye the soft gales, that visit there,
From your waving censers greet

With store of freshest balmiest air.

Come bathe the steaming noontide hour invites; Even in your face the sparkling waters smile— Yet on the brink they linger, timid wights, Pondering and measuring; on their gaze the while Eddying pool and shady creek

Darker and deeper seem to grow:

On and onward still, they seek

Where sports may less adventurous show.

At length the boldest springs; but ere he cleave
The flashing waters, eye and thought grow dim;
Too rash it seems, the firm green earth to leave:
Heaven is beneath him: shall he sink or swim?
Far in boundless depth he sees

The rushing clouds obey the gale,
Trembling hands and tottering knees,
All in that dizzy moment fail.

John Keble.

Τ

CUMNOR HALL.

dews of summer night did fall;

THE The moon, sweet regent of the sky,

Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby.

Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy lady's sighs

That issued from that lovely pile.

"Leicester!" she cried, "is this thy love.
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?

"No more thou com'st with lover's speed Thy once-belovèd bride to see;

But, be she alive, or be she dead,

I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.

Cumnor Hall

229

"Not so the usage I received

When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appal.

"I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn So merrily sung the livelong day.

"If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl! it well was prized?

"But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather, ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

"Then, Leicester, why,-again I plead,
The injured surely may repine,-
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair Princess might be thine?

"Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And oh then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?

"The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.

"How far less blest am I than them!
Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.

"My spirits flag-my hopes decayStill that dread death-bell smites my ear: And many a boding seems to say,

Countess, prepare, thy end is near!"

Thus sore and sad that Lady grieved
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring;
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green;
Woe was the hour-for never more
That hapless Countess e'er was seen!

And in that manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball:
For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.