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ENEATH those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

the rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
the swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
the cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
no more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
or busy housewife ply her evening care:
no children run to lisp their sire's return,

or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to the sickle yield,
their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
how jocund did they drive their team afield!
how bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
their sober wishes never learnt to stray;
along the cool sequester'd vale of life

they kept the noiseless tenor of their way.





H thou that swing'st upon the waving hair
of some well-filled oaten beard,

drunk every night with a delicious tear

dropp'd thee from heaven, where now thou 'rt rear'd.

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,

that with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly:
and, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
to thy carv'd acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then,
sport'st in the gilt-plats of his beams,
and all these merry days mak'st merry men,
thyself, and melancholy streams.

But ah, the sickle! golden ears are cropped;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;

sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have top'd,
and what scythes spar'd, winds shave off quite.
Poor verdant fool! and now, green ice, thy joys
large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
bid us lay in 'gainst winter, rain, and poise
their floods with an o'erflowing glass.





N a day, (alack the day!)

Love, whose month is ever May,

spied a blossom, passing fair,
playing in the wanton air;

through the velvet leaves the wind,
all unseen, 'gan passage find;
that the lover, sick to death,

wished himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn,

ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
youth so apt to pluck a sweet :
do not call it sin in me,
that I am forsworn for thee:
thou for whom Jove would swear,
Juno but an Ethiope were;
and deny himself for Jove,
turning mortal for thy love.



HE may be fair,' he sang, 'but yet


far fairer have I seen

than she, for all her locks of jet,

and eyes so dark and sheen.

Were I a Danish knight in arms,

as one day I may be,

my heart should own no foreign charms-
a Danish maid for me.

'I love my father's Northern land,
where the dark pine trees grow,

and the bold Baltic's echoing strand
looks o'er each grassy oe:

I love to mark the lingering sun,
from Denmark loath to go,
and leaving on the billows bright,
to cheer the short-lived summer-night,
a path of ruddy glow.

'But most the Northern maid I love,
with breast like Denmark's snow,
and form as fair as Denmark's pine,
who loves with purple heath to twine
her locks of sunny glow;

and sweetly blend that shade of gold
with the cheek's rosy hue,

and Faith might for her mirror hold
that eye of matchless blue.

"Tis hers the manly sports to love
that southern maidens fear,

to bend the bow by stream and grove,
and lift the hunter's spear:

she can her chosen champion's flight
with eye undazzled see,

clasp him victorious from the strife,
or on his corpse yield up her life-
a Danish maid for me!'




'OME up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane,


my Dane with the beautiful eyes!

thousands and thousands await thee full fain,
and talk of the winds and skies;

fear not from folk and from country to part,

O, I swear it is wisely done;

for (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart,
as becometh my father's son.

Great London was shouting as I went down;
'She is worthy," I said, 'of this;

what shall I give who have promised a crown?
O, first I will give her a kiss.'


So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane,
through the waving wonderful crowd;
thousands and thousands, they shouted amain
like mighty thunders and loud.

And they said: 'He is young, the lad we love,
the heir of the Isles is young;

how we deem of his mother, and one gone above,
can neither be said nor sung.

He brings us a pledge-he will do his part

with the best of his race and name:' and I will, for I look to live, sweetheart, as may suit with my mother's fame.




IKE to Diana in her summer weed,
girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,
goes fair Samela;
whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,
when washed by Arethusa faint they lie,
is fair Samela;

as fair Aurora in her morning grey,
decked with the ruddy glister of her love,
is fair Samela;

like lovely Thetis on a calméd day,
whenas her brightness Neptune's fancy move,
shines fair Samela;

her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,
her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory

of fair Samela;

her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth gleams,
her brows' bright arches framed of ebony;

thus fair Samela;

passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
and Juno in the shew of majesty,

for she's Samela;

Pallas in wit, all three, if you will view,
for beauty, wit, and matchless dignity

yield to Samela.



WOW each Creature joys the other,


passing happy days and hours:

one bird reports unto another,

in the fall of silver showers;
whilst the earth, our common mother,
hath her bosom deck'd with flowers:
whilst the greatest torch of Heaven,
with bright rays warms Flora's lap;
making nights and days both even,
chearing plants with fresher sap:
my field of flowers quite bereaven
wants refresh of better hap.
Echo, daughter of the air,

(babbling guest of rocks and hills,)
knows the name of my fierce fair,
and sounds the accents of my ills.
Each thing pities my despair,

I whilst that she her lover kills:
whilst that she (O cruel Maid!)
doth me and my love despise;
my life's flourish is decayed,
that depended on her eyes:
but her will must be obeyed;

and well he ends, for love who dies.




RAW near,


you Lovers that complain

of Fortune or Disdain,

and to my ashes lend a tear;

melt the hard marble with your groans,
and soften the relentless stones,

whose cold embraces the sad subject hide,
of all Love's cruelties and Beauty's pride!

No verse,

no epicedium bring,

nor peaceful requiem sing,

to charm the terrors of my hearse;

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