But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts-pretty girls-just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low-'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach; And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so, To see how sadly I am changed since twenty years ago. Near by that spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow, Just as she died, whose name you cut, some twenty years ago. My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came to my eyes; I thought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties; strew Upon the graves of those we loved some twenty years ago. Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea; BEN BOLT DON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,- Ben Bolt In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, 455 And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze Has followed the olden din. Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt. And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek for in vain; And where once the lords of the forest waved And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, And of all the boys who were schoolmates then There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, Thomas Dunn English [1819-1902] 'BREAK, BREAK, BREAK" BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on, To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] |