And when it pleaseth thee to walk abroad—
Abroad into the fields to take fresh air,
The meads with Flora's treasure should be strew'd-
The mantled meadows and the fields so fair,
And by a silver well with golden sands
I'll sit me down and wash thine ivory hands.
And in the sweltering heat of summer time
I would make cabinets for thee, my love;
Sweet-smelling harbours made of eglantine
Should be thy shrine, and I would be thy dove:
Cool cabinets of fresh green laurel boughs
Should shadow us o'erset with thickset yews.
Or if thou lovest to hear sweet melody,
Or pipe a round upon an oaten reed,
Or make thyself glad with some mirthful glee,
Or play them music whilst thy flock doth feed,
To Pan's own pipe I'll help my lovely lad―
Pan's golden pipe which he of Syrinx had.
If thou wilt come and dwell with me at home,
My sheepcote shall be strewn with new green rushes: We'll hunt the trembling prickets as they roam
About the fields, along the hawthorn bushes;
I have a piebald cur to hunt the hare,
So we will live with dainty forest fare.
Nay, more than this, I have a garden plot,
Wherein there wants nor herbs, nor roots, nor flowers; Flowers to smell, roots to eat, herbs for the pot, And dainty shelters when the welkin lowers: Sweet-smelling beds of lilies and of roses, Which rosemary banks and lavender incloses.
There grew the gillyflower, the mint, the daisy,
Both red and white, the blue-veined violet;
The purple hyacinth, the spike to please ye,
The scarlet-dyed carnation, bleeding yet:
The sage, the savory and sweet margerum,
Hyssop, thyme, eye-bright, good for blind and dumb.
The pink, the primrose, cowslip, daffodilly,
The harebell blue, the crimson columbine,
Sage, lettuce, parsley, and the milk-white lily,
The rose, and speckled flower call'd sops-in-wine;
Fine pretty king-cups, and the yellow bootes
That grow by rivers and by shallow brooks.
Yes, if thou wilt but show me one kind look-
A small reward for my so great affection,-
I'll grave thy name in Beauty's golden book,
And shroud thee under Helicon's protection,
Making the Muses chant thy lovely praise-
For they delight in shepherds' lowly lays.
And when thou'rt weary of thy keeping sheep,
Upon a lovely down, to please thy mind,
I'll give thee fine rough-footed doves to keep,
And pretty pigeons of another kind.
A robin-red breast shall thy minstrel be,
Chirping thee sweet and pleasant melody
Or wilt thou drink a cup of new-made wine,
Frothing at top, mix'd with a dish of cream
And strawberries or bilberries in their prime,
Bathed in a melting sugar-candy stream?
Bunnell and perry I have for thee alone,
When vines are dead and all the grapes are gone.
And thou love-hating boy (whom once I loved)
Farewell, a thousand thousand times farewell;
My tears the marble stones to ruth have moved-
My sad complaints the babbling echoes tell;
And yet thou wouldst take no compassion on me,
Scorning that cross which love hath laid upon me.
The hardest steel with fire doth bend, I wis-
Marble is mollified with drops of rain;
But thou (more hard than steel or marble is)
Dost scorn my tears, and my true love disdain,
Which, for thy sake shall everlasting be
Wrote in the annals of eternity.
Brilliants.
A LOVER'S LIKENESS.
Her walk is like the wind; her smile more sweet
Than sunshine, when it gilds the buds of May.
Rare words she has, and merry, like the lark;
And songs,-which were too sweet, but that sometimes
They droop and sadden like the pining flute;
And then her eyes, (soft planets), lose their light
In bashful rain, o'er which her cloudy hair
Hangs, like the night, protecting.
Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
The sister's vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-foot'd time
For parting us-O, and is all forgot?
All school-day's friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our needles created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key;
As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming part'd,
But yet a union in partition,
Two lovely berries mould'd on one stem:
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.
HIGH STATION.
What is station high?
'Tis a proud mendicant; it boasts, and begs; It begs an alms of homage from the throng, And oft the throng denies its charity.
Day takes his daily turn,
Rising between the gulfy dells of night
Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea.
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes,
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfinish'd.
I was born with greatness;
I've honours, titles, power, here within:
All vain external greatness I contemn.
Am I the higher for supporting mountains?
The taller for a flatt'rer's humble bowing?
Have I more room for being throng'd with followers?
The larger soul for having all my thoughts
Fill'd with the lumber of the state affairs?
Honours and riches are all splendid vanities,
They are of chiefest use to fools and knaves.
O might I here
In solitude live savage, in some glade
Obscured, where highest woods, impenetrable
To star or sun-light, spread their umbrage broad
And brown as evening: cover me, ye pines,
Ye cedars, with innumerable boughs
Hide me, where I may never see them more.
An honest man is still an unmoved rock,
Wash'd whiter, but not shaken with the shock:
Whose heart conceives no sinister device;
Fearless he plays with flames, and treads on ice.
Suggested by Howard's picture of this name, by T. K. HERVEY.
AND this is of the dreams that link
Thy present with thy former day,-
Where, still, thy fancies love to drink
At fountains far away :-
Till,-like the land in which they grew,-
That breast of thine is haunted ground,
Where shapes immortal wander through,
And spirit-echoes float around;
And pale, sad faces sit and weep,
In leafy places far apart,
And flashing eyes, that never sleep,
Look in upon thy heart;
And by thy spirit's thousand rills
Sit Naiads, singing wild, sweet strains,
And nymphs go hunting up its hills,
And dancing o'er its plains: :-
And thou, to show our mortal eyes
Those creatures of the Grecian skies,
Dost hold,-beyond the sage's glass !-
A spell through which the visions pass
And openest, with thy wand of art,
That bright Pantheon of thy heart!
"Tis she-'tis she-the huntress-queen,
Who leads the chase along the sky,
Yet loved to sweep the meadows green
Of pleasant Thessaly !—
Who left her palace of the stars,
To sleep amid the leafy spars;
And stole, beneath the cloak of day,
(Her standard of the moonlight furl'd),
To wander where earth's fountains play,
And haunt the valleys of the world!-
Who sought the voice of earthly rills,
To lull her with their sighing flight,
Though she may sleep on heaven's hills,
Where play the founts of light!—
Who lean'd to hear, the woods among,
Pan's low and melancholy song,
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