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577. WELL I REMEMBER HOW YOU SMILED
WELL I remember how you smiled

To see me write your name upon
The soft sea-sand- O! what a child!
You think you're writing upon stone!'

I have since written what no tide
Shall ever wash away, what men
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide
And find Ianthe's name again.

578. WHY REPINE?

WHY, why repine, my pensive friend,
At pleasures slipt away?

Some the stern Fates will never lend,
And all refuse to stay.

I see the rainbow in the sky,
The dew upon the grass,
I see them, and I ask not why
They glimmer or they pass.

With folded arms I linger not

To call them back; 'twere vain;
In this, or in some other spot,
I know they'll shine again.

579. THE CHILD OF MISERY

W. S. LANDOR.

W. S. LANDOR.

COLD on Canadian hills or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain;
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew
Gave the sad presage of his future years,-
The child of misery, baptized in tears.

J. LANGHORNE (The Country Justice).

580. UNCONSCIOUS CEREBRATION

SAY not that the past is dead. Though the Autumn leaves are shed,

Though the day's last flush has
flown,

Though the lute has lost its tone-
Still within, unfelt, unseen,
Lives the life that once has been ;
With a silent power still
Guiding heart or brain or will,

Lending bias, force, and hue
To the things we think and
do.

Strange! how aimless looks or
words

Sometimes wake forgotten chords,
Bidding dreams and memories
leap

From a long unbroken sleep.
W. E. H. LECKY.

581. THE LIBERTY OF THE IMPRISONED ROYALIST
WHAT though I cannot see my King,
Either in 's person, or his coin,
Yet contemplation is a thing

Which renders what I have not, mine.
My King from me no adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven in my heart.
My soul's free as the ambient air
Although my baser part 's immured;
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
To accompany my solitude.

And though Rebellion do my body bind,
My King can only captivate my mind.

I am that bird, which they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;

Who, though they do my corpse confine
Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free:

And, though immured, yet can I chirp and sing,
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my King!'

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583. WHEN YOUTHFUL FAITH HATH FLED

WHEN youthful faith hath fled,
Of loving take thy leave;
Be constant to the dead-
The dead cannot deceive.

Sweet modest flowers of spring,

How fleet your balmy day! And man's brief year can bring No secondary May,

No earthly burst again

Of gladness out of gloom, Fond hope and vision vain, Ungrateful to the tomb.

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But 'tis an old belief

That on some solemn shore,
Beyond the sphere of grief,
Dear friends shall meet once

more.

Beyond the sphere of time,

And Sin and Fate's control,
Serene in endless prime

Of body and of soul.
That creed I fain would keep,
That hope I'll not forgo,
Eternal be the sleep
Unless to waken so.

J. G. LOCKHART

584. TO LOVE

LOVE guards the roses of thy lips,
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shine,
And if I look the boy will lower,

And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers,
And pity me, and calm her eye,
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers,
Then will I praise thy deity.

585. LOVE, IN MY LOVE, in my bosom, like a bee, Doth suck his sweet.

Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast,
My kisses are his daily feast;
And yet he robs me of my rest!
Ah! wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he,
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the
string;

He music plays if so I sing,
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye!

586. TO

My Phyllis hath the morning sun,
At first to look upon her;
And Phyllis hath morn-waking
birds

Her risings for to honour.
My Phyllis hath prime-feathered
flowers

That smile when she treads on

them;

T. LODGE.

BOSOM, LIKE A BEE

Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to
play,

For your offence.

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I'll make you fast it for your sin;
I'll count your power not worth
a pin.

-Alas! what hereby shall I win,
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod ?

He will repay me with annoy
Because a god!

Then sit thou safely on my knee;
Then let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me.
Spare not, but play thee!
Ť. LODGE.

PHYLLIS

And Phyllis hath a gallant flock

That leap, since she doth own
them.

But Phyllis hath so hard a heart,
(Alas that she should have it!)
As yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.
T. LODGE.

587. TO THE CUCKOO

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

J. LOGAN.

588. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS A MIST was driving down the British Channel,

The day was just begun,

And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships;

And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover
Were all alert that day,

To see the French war-steamers speeding over,

When the fog cleared away.

LIBRARY

OF THE
UNIVERSITY
OF

CALIFORNIA

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,
Their cannon, through the night,

Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance,
The sea-coast opposite.

And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
On every citadel;

Each answering each, with morning salutations,
That all was well.

And down the coast, all taking up the burden,
Replied the distant forts,

As if to summon from his sleep the Warden
And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,
No drum-beat from the wall,

No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure,
Awaken with its call!

No more, surveying with an eye impartial
The long line of the coast,

Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal
Be seen upon his post!

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,
In sombre harness mailed,

Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,
The rampart wall had scaled.

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room,

And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,
The silence and the gloom.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble,
But smote the Warden hoar;

Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble,
And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead;

Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

589. THE SLAVE'S DREAM

BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land.

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