And scant thy poet's crown of flowers of praise; OH, leave thyself to God! and if, indeed, 'Tis Yet ever catches quaint of quaint old days Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy spirit bright: Even as to lips, the winds of winter bite, Some outcast wanderer sets his flute and plays Till at his feet blossom the icy ways, And from the snowdrift's bitter wasting white He hears the uprising carol of the lark, Soaring from clover seas with summer ripe While freeze upon his cheek glad, foolish tears. Ah! let us hope that somewhere in thy dark, Herrick's full note, and Suck ling's pleasant pipe given thee to perform so vast a task, Think not at all-think not, but kneel and ask. O friend, by thought was never creature freed Oft like a sudden pencil of rich light, Piercing the thickest umbrage of the wood, Will shoot, amid our troubles infinite, The spirit's voice; oft, like the balmy flood Of morn, surprise the universal night Are sounding still their solace With glory, and make all things in thine ears. sweet and good. EVENTIDE. COMES Something down with eventide Beside the sunset's golden bars, Beside the floating scents, beside The twinkling shadows of the stars. Upon the river's rippling face, Flash after flash the white The rest was soft and bright. By chance my eye fell on the stream; This knew I in that hour. For then my heart, so full of strife, I and the river, we were one: A rushing thing in power serene I felt of having ever been Was it a moment or an hour? I knew not; but I mourned Up! for the time is short; and soon Outrunning thine, shaH spoil the WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH. While the day lingers, do thy best! THE HARVEST-CALL. ABIDE not in the land of dreams, Nor linger in the misty past, Full soon the night will bring its rest; RAIN. DASHING in big drops on the narrow pane, And making mournful music for the mind, But he ne left nought for no rain nor thunder, In sickness and in mischief, to visit The farthest in his parish much and lite, Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff: This noble 'nsample to his sheep he gaf, That first he wrought, and afterward he taught. Out of the gospel he the wordès caught, And this figure he added eke thereto, That, if gold rusté, what should iron do? For, if a priest be foul on whom we trust, No wonder is a lewèd man to rust; For shame it is, that if a priest take keep shepherd and To see a fouled " clean sheep: Well ought a priest ensample for to give By his cleanness how his sheep should live. He setté not his benefice to hire, And let his sheep accumbred in the mire, And ran unto London unto Saint Poule's To seeken him a chantery for souls, Or with a brotherhood to be withold; But dwelt at home and keptè well his fold, So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry; He was a shepherd and no mercenary; As though he holy were and virtuous, He was to sinful men not dispitous, Ne of his speeché dangerous ne digne; But in his teaching discreet and benign. To drawen folk to heaven with fairéness, By good ensample, was his business; But it were any person obstinate, What so he were of high or low estate, Him would he snibben sharply for the nonés: A better priest I trow that no where none is. He waited after no pomp or reverence, Ne makéd him no spicéd conscience; But Christés lore, and his apostles twelve He taught, but first he followed it himselve. GOOD COUNSEL. FLY fro the press, and dwell with soothfastnesse. Suffice unto thy good though it be small, For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness, Press hath envy, and weal is blent over all. Savour no more than thee behové shall. Rede well thyself that other folke canst rede; And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. Painè thee not each crooked to redress In trust of her that turneth as a ball; Great rest standeth in little businesse, Beware also to spurne against an awl, Strive not as doth a crockè with a wall; Deemè thyself that demest others' deed; And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. That thee is sent receive in buxomnesse; The wrastling of this world asketh a fall. Here is no home, here is but a wilder nesse. Forth, pilgrim! forth, beast, out of thy stall! Lookè up on high, and thankè God of all! Waive thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lead; And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. TO HIS EMPTY PURSE. To you, my purse, and to none other wight Complaine I, for ye be my lady dere, I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere, Me were as lefe laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your color like the sunne bright, That of yelowness had never pere, Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queene of comfort and good companie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. Now purse, that art to me my livès light, And saviour, as downe in this world here, Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you woll not be my treasure, When smell of spring fills all the air, And meadows bloom, and blue-birds pair; When love first laves her sunny head Shall silent be, as tuneful now; Adown the solitary vale; CLARENCE COOK. ON ONE WHO DIED IN MAY. Peach-blow and apple-blossom; With golden dandelion and daffodil; Why, Death, what dost thou here, Fair, at the old oak's knee, The first sloop-sail, What dost thou here? |