CXXIX.

LIFE.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD, 1743-1825.

L'

IFE! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met,

I own to me's a secret yet.

But this I know, when thou art fled,

Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,

No clod so valueless shall be,

As all that then remains of me.

O whither, whither dost thou fly,

Where bend unseen thy trackless course,

And in this strange divorce,

Ah tell where I must seek this compound I?
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,

From whence thy essence came,

Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed
From matter's base encumbering weed?
Or dost thou, hid from sight,

Wait, like some spell-bound knight,

Through blank oblivious years the appointed hour,
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?

Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?
O say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?

Life! we've been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not good night, but in some brighter clime

Bid me good morning.

CXXX.

CHARLES DIEDIN,

1745-1814.

SONG.

LOW high, blow low, let tempests tear

BLOW

The main-mast by the board;

My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear,

And love well stored,

Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear,

The roaring winds, the raging sea,

In hopes on shore

To be once more

Safe moored with thee.

Aloft while mountains high we go,

The whistling winds that scud along,

And the surge roaring from below,
Shall my signal be

To think on thee,

And this shall be my song:

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear
The main-mast by the board.

And on that night when all the crew

The memory of their former lives,

O'er flowing cans of flip renew,

And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think on thee;

And, as the ship rolls through the sea,

The burthen of my song shall be,

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear

The main-mast by the board.

CXXXI.

WILLIAM BLAKE,

1757-1827.

H

SONG.

WOW sweet I roamed from field to field,

And tasted all the summer's pride,

Till I the Prince of Love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He shewed me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.