« AnteriorContinuar »
The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him.
But I remained, whose hopes were dim,
Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth
To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of biri.
O friend beloved! I sit apart and dumb,
Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine; My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with
thine. Thou art to me most like a royal guest,
Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof, Where simple rustics spread their festal fare
And, blushing, own it is not good enough. Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com’st to me,
From high emprise and noble toil to rest,
JULIA WARD HOWE.
O friendship, equal-poised control,
O heart, with kindliest motion warm,
O sacred essence, other form,
Yet none could better know than 1,
How much of act at human hands
The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die.
COMPLIMENT AND ADMIRATION.
TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.
'Twixt the souls of friend and friend : But upon the fairest boughs,
Or at every sentence' end, Will I Rosalinda write ;
Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show. Therefore Heaven nature charged
That one body should be filled
Nature presently distilled
Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts
By heavenly synod was devised ; Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches dearest prized. Heaven would that she these gifts should have,
And I to live and die her slave.
PHILLIS THE FAIR.
On a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet ! By that flower there is a bower
Where the heavenly muses meet.
In that bower there is a chair,
Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair
That ever eye did yet behold.
It is Phillis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherd's joy, She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.
WHY SHOULD THIS DESERT SILENT BE?
FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT."
For it is unpeopled ? No;
That shall civil sayings show:
Runs his erring pilgrimage;
Buckles in his sum of age :
Who would not that face admire ?
Who would not this saint adore ! Who would not this sight desire ?
Though he thought to see no more,
Thou that art the shepherd's queen,
Look upon thy love-sick swain ; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again.
A VIOLET in her lovely hair,
But O, her eyes
That's 'neath the skies.
Fair Portia's counterfeit? What demi-god
hairs The painter plays the spider; and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men, Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes, How could he see to do them? having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, | And leave itself unfurnished.
A lute beneath her graceful hand
But still her tongue
Can give to song.
WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES. |
WHENAs in silks my Julia goes
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
I DO NOT LOVE THEE FOR THAT FAIR.
I do not love thee for that fair
I do not love thee for those flowers
GIVE PLACE, YE LOVERS. GIVE place, ye lovers, here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
As had Penelope the fair ;
As it by writing sealéd were:
The whole effect of Nature's plaint,
The like to whom she could not paint: With wringing hands, how she did cry, And what she said, I know it aye. I know she swore with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss by law of kind
That could have gone so near her heart; And this was chiefly all her pain ; “She could not make the like again."
I do not love thee for those soft
I do not love thee, O my fairest,
Sith Nature thus gave her the praise,
To be the chiefest work she wrought, In faith, methink, some better ways
On your behalf might well be sought, Than to compare, as ye have done, To match the candle with the sun.
'THE FORWARD VIOLET THUS DID I
YOU MEANER BEAUTIES.
The forward violet thus did I chide :-
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the moon shall rise ? You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents,- what's yonr praise When Philomel her voice shall raise ?