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Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness,
Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness,
And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing,

That Sylvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

NURSE'S SONG

When the voices of children are heard on the green,

And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast,

And everything else is still.

“Then come home, my children, the sun is gone

down, And the dews of night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away

Till the morning appears in the skies."

“No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,

And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,

And the hills are all cover'd with sheep."

SWEET AND LOW

127

“Well, well, go and play till the light fades away

And then go home to bed.” The little ones leap'd and shouted and laugh'd, And all the hills echoed.

WILLIAM BLAKE

SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES”

The year's at the spring
And day 's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in his heaven
All's right with the world!

ROBERT BROWNING

SWEET AND LOW

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dropping moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

ALFRED TENNYSON

SONG

How sweet I roam'd 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 show'd 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.

WILLIAM BLAKE ROUNDELAY

129

ROUNDELAY

O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holy-day,
Like a running river be.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Black his locks as the winter night,
White his skin as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below,

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout,
O he lies by the willow-tree!

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briar'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy Saint to save
All the coldness of a maid!

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll gird the briars
Round his holy corse to grow.
Elfin Faery, light your fires;
Here my body still shall bow.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartè's blood away;

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