No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;

But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,

Like tapers clear, without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,

Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet

Thy silvery feet,

My soul I'll pour into thee.

Robert Herrick.

GO, LOVELY ROSE

Go, lovely rose !

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

145

Edmund Waller.

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

Он, to be in England,

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England-now!

And after April when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field, and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops, at the bent spray's

edge,

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice

over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture.

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower,
Far brighter than this gaudy melon flower.

Robert Browning.

But Robin's here with coat of brown,
And ruddy breast-knot gay.

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;

The trees are Indian princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts;

The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough;

It's autumn, autumn, autumn late,
'T will soon be winter now.

ELEGY

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And what will this poor Robin do?
For pinching days are near.

The fireside for the cricket,

The wheatstack for the mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,

The branches plumed with snow,
Alas! in winter dead and dark,

And a crumb of bread for Robin,

His little heart to cheer!

147

William Allingham.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 1

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

1 Note 12.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever 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 their 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!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,