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WITH A COPY OF HERRICK
FRESH with all airs of woodland brooks
And scents of showers,
This saint of flowers.
When meadows burn with budding May,
And heaven is blue,
Saint Robin true.
Love crowned with thorns is on his staff,
Thorns of sweet-brier; His benediction is a laugh,
Birds are his choir.
His sacred robe of white and red
ON MALVERN HILL
A wind is brushing down the clover,
It sweeps the tossing branches bare, Blowing the poising kestrel over
The crumbling ramparts of the Caer.
It whirls the scattered leaves before us
Along the dusty road to home,
TO HIS DEAR GOD
Once it awakened into chorus
The heart-strings in the ranks of Rome.
There by the gusty coppice border
The shrilling trumpets broke the halt, The Roman line, the Roman order,
Swayed forwards to the blind assault.
Spearman and charioteer and bowman
Charged and were scattered into spray, Savage and taciturn the Roman
Hewed upwards in the Roman way.
There — in the twilight - where the cattle
Are lowing home across the fields, The beaten warriors left the battle
Dead on the clansmen's wicker shields.
The leaves whirl in the wind's riot
Beneath the Beacon's jutting spur, Quiet are clan and chief, and quiet Centurion and signifer.
TO HIS DEAR GOD
I'll hope no more
Wealth brings much woe:
"T is better to be poor,
Than so abound,
As to be drowned,
Pale care, avaunt!
What may conduce
But that, or this,
That hurtful is,
BY THE SEA
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder - everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 187
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.
Come live with me and be my Love,
There will we sit upon the rocks
There will I make thee beds of roses
A gown made of the finest wool,
A belt of straw and ivy buds
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Thy silver dishes for thy meat
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
TO HIS LOVE
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
They had not skill enough your worth to sing: