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Two paradises 't were in one,
To live in paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new; Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ?

ANDREW MARVELL

YATTENDON

Among the woods and tillage

That fringe the topmost downs,
All lonely lies the village,

Far off from seas and towns.
Yet when her own folk slumbered

I heard within her street
Murmur of men unnumbered

And march of myriad feet.

For all she lies so lonely,

Far off from towns and seas,
The village holds not only

The roofs beneath her trees:
While Life is sweet and tragic

And Death is veiled and dumb,

Hither, by singer's magic,
The pilgrim world must come.

HENRY NEWBOLT

THE SCHOLAR GIPSY

“There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others: that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.” — GLANVIL's Vanity of Dogmatizing, 1661.

Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill!
Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!

No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head!

But when the fields are still,
And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,

And only the white sheep are sometimes seen
Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd

green,
Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest!

Here, where the reaper was at work of late –
In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves

His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,
And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,

Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to

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Here will I sit and wait,
While to my ear from uplands far away

The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,

With distant cries of reapers in the corn All the live murmur of a summer's day.

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, And here till sun-down, shepherd, will I be!

Through the thick cośn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils

creep; And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed show

ers

Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,

And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book-
Come, let me read the oft-read tale again!

The story of that Oxford scholar poor,
Of shining parts and quick inventive brain,
Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door,

One summer morn forsook
His friends, and went to learn the gipsy lore,

And roam'd the world with that wild brother

hood, And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more.

But once, years after, in the country-lanes,
Two scholars whom at college erst he knew

Met him, and of his way of life inquir'd.
Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy crew,
His mates, had arts to rule as they desired

The workings of men's brains;
And they can bind them to what thoughts they

will.
“And I," he said, "the secret of their art,

When fully learn'd, will to the world impart; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill!”

This said, he left them, and return'd no more.
But rumours hung about the country-side

That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray,

The same the gipsies wore.
Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring;

At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd

boors
Had found him seated at their entering,

But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly;

And I myself seem half to know thy looks,

Here, where the reaper was at work of! :. In this high field's dark corner, w'.

His coat, his basket, and his,', And in the sun all morning bin ?

Then here, at noon, comes !

use

Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands f:

The bleating of the folded floo

With distant cries of reapers i: All the live murmur of a summer

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, i
And here till sun-down, shepher

Through the thick cośn the sca:
And round green roots and yello:
Pale blue convolvulus in tendr:

And air-swept lindens yie! Their scent, and rustle down their

ers

Of bloom on the bent grass whi"

And bower me from the August
And the eye travels down to Oxf.

And near me on the grass lies Glany
Come, let me read the oft-read ta!

The story of that Oxford schol...
Of shining parts and quick inventi.
Who, tired of knocking at prefe

One summer morn forsook
His friends, and went to learn the

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