Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies,

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee!

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards; Already with thee tender is the night,

And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways,

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs; But, in embalméd darkness guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild, White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets, coyered up in leaves;

And mid-May's oldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of bees on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muséd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight, with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain, —

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for

home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that ofttimes hath

WHENAS the Palmer came in hall,
No lord, nor knight, was there more tall,
Or had a statelier step withal,

Or looked more high and keen;
For no saluting did he wait,
But strode across the hall of state,
And fronted Marmion where he sate,

As he his peer had been.

But his gaunt frame was worn with toil;
His cheek was sunk, alas the while!
And when he struggled at a smile,
His eye looked haggard wild:
Poor wretch the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face and sunburned hair
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,
Soon change the form that best we know, -
For deadly fear can time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair;

Hard toil can roughen form and face,
And want can quench the eye's bright grace,
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace,

More deeply than despair.
Happy whom none of these befall,
But this poor Palmer knew them all.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

WOOLSEY'S FALL.

FROM "HENRY VIII."

Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Forlorn the very word is like a bell,

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu the Fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of-say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey-that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor-
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition :
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last cherish those hearts that hate

thee:

Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O
Cromwell!

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.

Serve the king; and -pr'ythee, lead me in :
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 't is the king's my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. OCromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

SHAKESPEARE.

DEATH OF THE WHITE FAWN.

THE wanton troopers, riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive

Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,

Them any harm; alas! nor could

Thy death yet do them any good.

I'm sure I never wished them ill,

I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me; nay, and I know
What he said then, I'm sure I do :
Said he, "Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear!"
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled, —
This waxed tame, while he grew wild ;
And, quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away
With this; and, very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent.
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game.
It seemed to bless
Itself in me; how could I less
Than love it? O, I cannot be
Unkind t' a beast that loveth me!
Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it, too, might have done so
As Sylvio did, - his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he.
For I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first
I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day

It waxed more white and sweet than they
It had so sweet a breath! and oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft
And white-shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet!
With what a pretty, skipping grace

It oft would challenge me the race!
And when 't had left me far away,

'T would stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess

To be a little wilderness;

And all the springtime of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie ;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips even seemed to bleed;
And then to me 't would boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill ;

And its pure virgin limbs to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

O, help! O, help! I see it faint,
And die as calmly as a saint!
See how it weeps! the tears do come,
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so
The holy frankincense doth flow;
The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these,
I in a golden phial will

Keep these two crystal tears, and fill
It, till it do o'erflow with mine;
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanished to
Whither the swans and turtles go,
In fair Elysium to endure,

With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure.
O, do not run too fast! for I

Will but bespeak thy grave and die.
First, my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too. But there
The engraver sure his art may spare ;
For I so truly thee bemoan

That I shall weep, though I be stone,
Until my tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;
For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.

ANDREW MARVELL.