Or like a bird that 's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan near death,-man's life is done!
Like to a bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look,
Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand,
Or like the writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of a stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot,
The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot,
The thought is past, the dream is gone,
The water glides,—man's life is done!
Like to a blaze of fond delight,
Or like a morning clear and bright,
Or like a frost, or like a shower,
Or like the pride of Babel's tower,
Or like the hour that guides the time,
Or like to Beauty in her prime;
Even such is man, whose glory lends
That life a blaze or two, and ends.
The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain,
The frost is thawed, dried up the rain,
The tower falls, the hour is run,
The beauty lost,-man's life is done!
Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of water-flow,
Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,
Or like a race, or like a goal,
Or like the dealing of a dole;
Even such is man, whose brittle state
Is always subject unto Fate.
The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent,
The time 's no time, the web soon rent,
The race soon run, the goal soon won,
The dole soon dealt,-man's life is done!
Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a short song,
Or like a journey three days long,
Or like the snow when summer's come,
Or like the pear, or like the plum;
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow.
The lightning 's past, the post must go,
The song is short, the journey 's so,
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,
The snow dissolves,-and so must all!
Willy Browned in Varrow.
"WILLY 's rare, and Willy 's fair,
And Willy 's wondrous bonny;
And Willy heght to marry me,
Gin e'er he married ony.
"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
This night I'll make it narrow;
For a' the livelang winter night
I ly twined of my marrow.
"Oh came you by yon water-side?
Pou'd you the rose or lily?
Or came you by yon meadow green?
Or saw you my sweet Willy?"
She sought him east, she sought him west,
She sought him braid and narrow;
Syne in the cleaving of a craig,
She found him drowned in Yarrow.
WRITTEN IN THE TOWER, THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION.
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is past, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen.
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
I sought for death and found it in the wombe,
I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,
I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,
And now I die, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE.
FAIR Stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marched toward Agincourt
In happy hour-
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power,
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet, with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
Though they be one to ten,
Be not amazed;
Yet have we well begun-
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.
And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be;
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain:
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopped the French lilies.
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.
Excester had the rear
A braver man not there:
O Lord! how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone;
Armor on armor shone;
Drum now to drum did groan
To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
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