Imagens da página
PDF
ePub
[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][subsumed][ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

224

[blocks in formation]

MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

MOAN, moan, ye dying gales!
The saddest of your tales
Is not so sad as life;
Nor have you e'er began
A theme so wild as man,

Or with such sorrow rife.

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf!
Autumn sears not like grief,

Nor kills such lovely flowers;
More terrible the storm,
More mournful the deform,

When dark misfortune lowers.

Hush hush thou trembling lyre,
Silence, ye vocal choir,

And thou, mellifluous lute,

For man soon breathes his last,
And all his hope is past,

And all his music mute.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT."

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly!

SHAKESPEARE.

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."

SIX years had passed, and forty ere the six,
When Time began to play his usual tricks :
The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,
Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching
white;

The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.
I rode or walked as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,
But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb."
At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,

And must have all things in my order placed.
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot.
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,

And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose.

In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,
And new dislike to forms and fashions new.
I loved my trees in order to dispose ;

I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ;
Told the same story oft, -in short, began to prose.

GEORGE CRABBE.

TOMMY'S DEAD.

You may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,

There's not a blade will grow, boys, "T is cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,

He's going blind, as I said,

My old eyes can't bear, boys,

To see him in the shed;

The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,

I doubt she's badly bred;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,

Neither white nor red;

There's no sign of grass, boys,

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,

And the beasts must be fed :
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

Move my chair on the floor, boys,
Let me turn my head:

She's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred!

Take her away from me, boys,

Your sister Winifred!

Move me round in my place, boys,

Let me turn my head,

Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed!
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all 's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head;
Out of the big oak tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys,
The Lord be hallowéd!
Outside and in

The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivelled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.

« AnteriorContinuar »