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qui seul était mon soutien;
de son inconstante haleine
le zephyr ou l'aquilon
depuis ce jour me promène
de la forêt à la plaine,
de la montagne au vallon.
Je vais où le vent me mène,
sans me plaindre ou m'effrayer;
je vais où va toute chose,
où va la feuille de rose,
et la feuille de laurier.'

V. A. ARNAULT

1403

ON THE DEATH OF A RARE INFANT SIX

YEARS OLD

,

TIT'S perfection, Beauty's wonder,

Nature's pride, the Graces' treasure,
Virtue's life, his friend's sole pleasure,
this cold marble stone lies under,
which is often moist with tears
for such loss in such young years.
Lovely Boy, thou art not dead,
but from earth to heaven fled;
for base earth was far unfit
for such beauty, grace, and wit.
Thou, alive on earth, sweet Boy,
hadst an angels wit and face;
and, now dead, thou dost enjoy
in high heaven an angel's place.

F. DAVISON

1404

PART I $$ 266, 268, 332

WHAT

1405 AV EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC

POET, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
HAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured

bones,
the labour of an age in piléd stones?
or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
under a star-y-pointing pyramid ?
dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
what needst thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment,
hast built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,
thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart,
hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
and so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
that kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

J. MILTON

1406 ON A BEAUTIFUL FOUNTAIN, FORMING A COLD

BATH

FO
TOUNTAIN, that sparklest through the shady place,

making a soft sad murmur o'er the stones
that strew thy lucid way! Oh, if some guest
should haply wander near, with slow disease
smitten, may thy cold springs the rose of health
bring back, and the quick lustre to his eye!
the ancient oaks that on thy margin wave,
the song of birds, and through the rocky cave
the clear stream gushing, their according sounds
should mingle, and like some strange music, steal
sadly, yet soothing, o'er his aching breast.
And thou pale exile from thy native shore,
here drink, (O couldst thou! as of Lethe's stream !)
nor friends, nor bleeding country, nor the views
of hills or streams beloved, nor vesper's bell,
heard in the twilight vale, remember more !

W. L. BOWLES

1407

MAY
Now
OW May with life and music

the blooming valley fills,
and rears her tender arches

o'er all the little rills.
The minstrel bird of evening

comes back on joyous wings,
and, like the harp's soft murmur,

is heard the gush of springs; the rugged trees are mingling

their flowery sprays in love, F. S.

III

36

the ivy climbs the laurel

to clasp the boughs above-
they change; but thou Lisena

art cold, when I complain:
why to this lover only
does Spring return in vain ?

W. C. BRYANT

1408

N going to my lonely bed,

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I heard a wife sing to her child,

that long had moaned and wept.
She sighed sore and sang full sweet

to lull the babe to rest,
that would not cease, but cried the more

upon its mother's breast.
She was full weary of her watch,

and grieved with her child;
she rocked it and rated it,

till that on her it smiled.
Then did she say, “Now have I found

this proverb true to prove:
‘The falling out of faithful friends

renewing is of love.'”

1409

O more, ye warbling birds, rejoice,

of all that cheered the plain:
echo alone preserves her voice,

and she-repeats my pain.
Where'er my love-sick limbs I lay,

to shun the rushing wind,
its busy murmur seems to say,

She never will be kind!'
The Naiads, o'er their frozen urns,

in icy chains repine;
and each in sullen silence mourns

her freedom lost, like mine!
Soon will the sun's returning rays

the cheerless frost control; when will relenting Delia chase the winter of my soul?

W. SHENSTONE

1410

"NO HAZ PAJAROS OVAÑO EN LOS NIDOS DE

ANTAÑO»
'HE sun is bright, the sky is clear,

,

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 !

H. W. LONGFELLOW

SPEAK gently! it is better far

1411

SPEAK GENTLY

!
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;

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

A WINTER PIECE
IT
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.

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