466. PACK, CLOUDS, AWAY, AND WELCOME DAY

PACK, clouds, away, and welcome, day!
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft,
To give my Love good-morrow!

Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my Love good-morrow!

To give my Love good-morrow

Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red breast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair Love good-morrow!
To give my Love good-morrow
Sing, birds, in every furrow!

T. HEYWOOD (The Rape of Lucrece).

467. YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING

YE little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,

And see how Phyllis sweetly walks
Within her garden-alleys;

Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah, me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go tell her through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;

See that your notes strain not too low,
For still, methinks, I see her frown;
Ye pretty wantons, warble.

O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber!

Sing round about her rosy bed

That waking she may wonder.
Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you;
And when you hear her kind reply
Return with pleasant warblings.

T. HEYWOOD (The Fair Maid of the
Exchange).

468. TENDER-HANDED STROKE A NETTLE

TENDER-HANDED stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains;

Grasp it like a man of mettle,

And it soft as silk remains.

'Tis the same with common

natures,

Use them kindly, they rebel; But be rough as nutmeg-graters, And the rogues obey you well. AARON HILL.

469. THE SKYLARK

BIRD of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud;
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

J. HOGG.

470. FROM MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET'

My love she's but a lassie yet,

A lichtsome lovely lassie yet;

It scarce wad do

To sit an' woo

Down by the stream sae glossy yet.
But there's a braw time coming
yet,

When we may gang a-roaming yet,
An' hint wi' glee
O' joys to be,

When fa's the modest gloaming
yet.

She's neither proud nor saucy yet,

She's neither plump nor gaucy

yet,

But just a jinking,
Bonny blinking,

Hilty-skilty lassie yet.

But O her artless smile's mair

sweet

Than hinny or than marmalete,
An' right or wrang,

Ere it be lang,

I'll bring her to a parley yet.
J. HOGG.

471. FROM A BOY'S SONG'
WHERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest:
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
When the shadow falls the deepest,
When the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

472. THE CROOKED FOOTPATH

J. HOGG.

Ан, here it is! the sliding rail

That marks the old remembered spot,-
The gap that struck our schoolboy trail,—
The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver birch

And ended at the farm-house door.

No line or compass traced its plan;
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran,

But always kept the door in sight.
The gabled porch, with woodbine green,-
The broken millstone at the sill,-

Though many a rood might stretch between,
The truant child could see them still.

No rocks across the pathway lie,—
No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown,-
And yet it winds, we know not why,
And turns as if for tree or stone.

Perhaps some lover trod the way
With shaking knees and leaping heart,-
And so it often runs astray

With sinuous sweep or sudden start.

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain
From some unholy banquet reeled,—
And since, our devious steps maintain
His track across the trodden field.

Nay, deem not thus, no earthborn will
Could ever trace a faultless line;
Our truest steps are human still,—
To walk unswerving were divine!

Truants from love, we dream of wrath ;-
Oh, rather, let us trust the more!
Through all the wanderings of the path,
We still can see our Father's door!

473. OLD IRONSIDES

AYE, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky:
Beneath it rung the battle-shout
And burst the cannon's roar ;-

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

O. W. HOLMES.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee,—
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale.

O. W. HOLMES.

474. BUILD THEE MORE STATELY MANSIONS

BUILD thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea.

Ŏ. W. HOLMES (The Chambered Nautilus).