SONG OF THE PEASANT WIFE.
JOME, Patrick, clear up the storm on your brow!
You were kind to me once-will you frown on
Shall the storm settle here when from heaven it departs, And the cold from without find its way to our hearts? No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather
Is easily borne when we bear it together.
Though the rain's dropping through from the roof to the floor,
And the wind whistles free where there once was a door,
Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away
All the warm vows we made in our love's early day?
No, Patrick, no! sure the dark stormy weather
Is easily borne if we bear it together.
When you stole out to woo me when labour was done,
And the day that was closing to us seemed begun,
Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,
Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?
No, Patrick! we talked, while we braved the wild weather,
Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.
Soon, soon will these dark dreary days be gone by,
And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky!
Oh, let not our spirits, embittered with pain,
Be dead to the sunshine that came to us then!
Heart in heart, hand in hand, let us welcome the weather, And sunshine or storm we will bear it together.
SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of Heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
IVE, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee.
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed,
With crawling woodbine overspread,
By which the silver shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams.
Thy clothing neat shall be a gown
Made of the fleece's purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat,
Their milk thy drink, and thou shalt eat
The paste of filberts for thy bread,
With cream of cowslips buttered.
Thy feasting tables shall be hills,
With daisies spread and daffodils,
Where thou shalt sit, and redbreast by
For meat shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets
Of primroses and violets.
These-nay, and more-thine own shall be,
If thou wilt love and live with me.
IT must be so-my infant love must find
In my own heart a cradle and a grave;
Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave,
Or rebel-spirit bound within the rind
Of some old wreathed oak, or fast enshrined
In the cold durance of an echoing cave.
Yet better thus than cold disdain to brave;
Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind
That decks its temple with unearthly grace.
Together must we dwell, my dream and I—
Unknown then live, and unlamented die,
Rather than dim the lustre of that face,
Or drive the laughing dimple from its place,
Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.
HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
THROUGH all the changes of the day
I turn me to the sun;
In clear or cloudy skies I say
Alike, Thy will be done.
JS shadowy April's suns and showers would pass,
And Summer's wild profusion plenteous grew,
Hiding the Spring flowers in long weeds and
What meads and copses would I wander through!
When on the water oped the lily buds,
And fine long purpies shadowed in the lake;
When purple bugles peeped in the woods,
'Neath darkest shades that boughs and leaves could make.
The ragged robins by the spinney lake,
And flag-flower bunches deeper down the flood,
And snugly hiding 'neath a feather'd brake,
Full many a bluebell flower, and cuckoo bud; And old man's beard that wreathed along the hedge Its oddly rude, misshapen tawny flowers,
And prickly burrs that crowd the leaves of sedge,
Have claimed my pleasing search for hours and hours.
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