The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper bells that rose the boughs along ; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learned from this example not to fly O Hesperus, thou bringest all good things— Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns! BYRON 1 In allusion to Boccaccio's story. 2 This stanza is translated from Sappho. 108.-IN A FAR COUNTRY FRIENDS, who watch me till the light Smile and slay me, Asking low what word to write Shun, I pray you, praise and blame; God assoil her! Praise would shame me, lying low; Blame would grieve me : Speak it where, at head and feet, Plant nor rosemary nor rue; They will cluster, careless who Blames or praises ; They will spring unsown, and say, So, when all is overgrown Late in summer, By these signs I shall be shown No new-comer, But the child for whom you prayed, Kneeling by a grave new-made,— Come then with the autumn birds, Seek me where your latest words Where, through all the fading year, Still this requiem I hear— God assoil her! Shut from sunlight, cold and low, Weeds above me You will find me where they grow, Hearts that love me! Ah! then, on the graveyard way, Fold once more your hands and pray; Christ assoil her! M. RYAN 109.-YOUTH IN AGE CALL him not old, whose visionary brain Holds o'er the past its undivided reign. For him in vain the envious seasons roll Who bears eternal Summer in his soul. If yet the minstrel's song, the poet's lay, Spring with her birds, or children at their play. Or maiden's smile, or heavenly dream of art, Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart, Turn to the record where his years are told,— Count his gray hairs,—they cannot make him old! In every heart some viewless founts are fed From far-off hillsides where the dews were shed; On the worn features of the weariest face Some youthful memory leaves its hidden trace, As in old gardens left by exiled kings The marble basins tell of hidden springs, But, gray with dust and overgrown with weeds, Their choking jets the passer little heeds, Till time's revenges break their seals away, And, clad in rainbow light, the waters play. O. W. HOLMES 110.-MAY 1 MARGARET 2 THE clinking bell gaed through the town, "Are ye sleeping, Margaret?" he says, "Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, 3 True love, as I gied them to thee." "Your faith and troth ye sall never get, 1 Maid. 2 Generally combined with an earlier part (by some supposed to be a separate ballad) under the name of Clerk Saunders. 3 Troth. "My mouth it is full cold, Margaret ; Thy days will soon be at an end. "O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight! "Thy faith and troth thou sall'na get, Wot ye, who die in strong traivelling." "Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gilliflowers; I wot, sweet company for to see. "O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight! Then she has taken a crystal wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window,1 Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan. "I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg’ret; Ever I thank ye heartilie ; But gin I were living, as I am dead, I'd keep my faith and troth with thee." 1 A window with one small aperture. |