1410

1411

"NO HAZ PAJAROS OVAÑO EN LOS NIDOs de ANTAÑO"

HE sun is bright, the sky is clear,

The darting swallows soar and sing,

and from the stately elms I hear

the blue-bird prophesying Spring.

All things are new;-the buds, the leaves,
that gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,—
and even the nest beneath the eaves;-
there are no birds in last year's nest!
Maiden that reads't this simple rhyme,
enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
for oh! it is not always May:
enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
to some good angel leave the rest;
for Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest!

SPEAK GENTLY

H. W. LONGFELLOW

PEAK gently! it is better far

SPE

to rule by love than fear;

speak gently!-let not harsh words mar
the good we might do here.

Speak gently to the little child,
its love be sure to gain;
lead it to God in accents mild;—
it may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young, for they

will have enough to bear;

pass through this life as best they may,
they'll find it full of care.

Speak gently to the aged one,
grieve not the care-worn heart;
his course in life is nearly run,
let such in peace depart.

Speak gently to the erring,-know
they may have toiled in vain;
perchance unkindness made them so,
oh! win them back again!

1412

IT

A WINTER PIECE

T was a winter's evening and fast came down the snow; and keenly o'er the wide heath the bitter blast did blow; when a damsel all forlorn,

quite bewildered in her way, prest her baby to her bosom and sadly thus did say:

'O cruel was my father,

that shut his door on me;

and cruel was my mother,

that such, a sight could see; and cruel is the wintry wind, that chills my heart with cold: but crueller than all, the lad that left my love for gold. 'Hush! hush! my lovely baby, and warm thee in my breast; ah little thinks thy father, how sadly we're distrest:

for cruel as he is,

did he know but how we fare,

he'd shield us in his arms

from this bitter piercing air.

'Cold, cold, my dearest jewel!
thy little life is gone:

O let my tears revive thee,

so warm that trickle down;

my tears that gush so warm,

oh! they freeze before they fall;

ah! wretched, wretched mother!
thou'rt now bereft of all."

Then down she sunk despairing,
upon the drifted snow;
and, wrung with killing anguish,
lamented loud her woe:
she kissed her baby's pale lips,
and laid it by her side;

then cast her eyes to heaven;

then bowed her head, and died.

1413

BENEATH 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.

T. GRAY

1414

THE GRASSHOPPER

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.

R. LOVELACE

1415

1416

ON

FORSWORN FOR LOVE

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.

W. SHAKESPEARE

HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS

HE may be fair,' he sang, ‘but yet

SHE

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!'

SIR W. SCOTT

1417

COM

A WEDDING SONG

'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.'