And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said,

(Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago,)

That he had a Roman nose,

And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.

But now his nose is thin,

And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff;

TO ALTHEA-FROM PRISON.

And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here,

But the old three-cornered hat,

And the breeches-and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

TO ALTHEA-FROM PRISON.

WHEN Love, with unconfined wings,

Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered to her eye,

TO ALTHEA - FROM PRISON.

The birds, that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round,
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes, that tipple in the deep,
Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnet, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king;

When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage.

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,

Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

TOM BOWLING.

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;

No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For Death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty;
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below, he did his duty;
But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare;

His friends were many and true-hearted;
His Poll was kind and fair.

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!

But mirth is turned to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He, who all commands,

Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.

Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,
In vain Tom's life has doffed;

For, though his body's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.

I.

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms! Alone, and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

II.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest 's done.

III.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

IV.

I met a lady in the mead,

Full beautiful, a fairy's child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.