Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, Or A light of ancient France; her who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams THE DEATH OF THE OLD FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, ing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow Old year, you must not die; He lieth still: he doth not move: He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; Old year, you shall not die; He was full of joke and jest, Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes! over the snow Shake hands, before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. |