Fly, fatal shaft. with cruel zeal The conscious murtheress cried, · And teach yon haughty boy to feel The anguish due to pride.' To soothe the soul-subduing power But combated, alas! in vain, The omnipotence of Love. Then ah! at length, stern Power, forbear, Enough has tasted woe. Or if ordained by stubborn fate To drag the eternal chain, To Mira equal toil impart ; On her thy pang bestow; Thrill with Love's agony her heart, And bid her suffer too. WRANGHAM. 'I, fuge,' fatalis clamavit conscia plagæ, 'I, pete,' ait, 'durum, fida sagitta, latus: Hinc tandem, hinc discat nostri contemptor oportet, Quæ sint feminea vulnera missa manu.' Pectoris ut sævos possem sanare dolores, Improbe, parce, Puer, pennatum intendere ferrum ; Præteritos egi non tam feliciter annos; Sin quæ dispensant mortalia fila sorores Si me fata jubent æternam ferre catenam, Nec prodest votis solicitasse Deos; Tu saltem Miræ similem, Puer, incute plagam, G. C. LOUISA. THOUGH by a sickly taste betrayed That she is healthful, fleet and strong, And smiles has she to earth unknown; That come and go with endless play, Are hidden in her eyes. She loves her fire, her cottage-home, Yet o'er the moorland will she roam In weather rough and bleak; And when against the wind she strains, O might I kiss the mountain rains That sparkle on her cheek. LOUISA. RUSTICAM spernant alii puellam, et Quam salus illam decoret vigorque ; Quamque veloci pede per profunda Saxa decurrat, redeunte sicut Flumina Maio. Ridet huic risus similis Dearum, Qui suas toto veneres in ore Prodit, alterno refluens fluensque Molliter æstu ; Pertinax circumvolitare lusu Sedulo frontem; aut roseum cubile Parvulo contenta focum paternum Devia montis; Dumque ibi in ventos animosa certat, Imbrium gemmas utinam oscularer, Qui genis in purpureis pudica Luce coruscant! Take all that's mine beneath the moon, If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave or mossy nook, Whene'er she wanders up the brook To hunt the waterfalls. WORDSWORTH. THE KNIGHT'S GRAVE. WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn The oak that in summer was pleasant to hear, And bellowed and whistled in winter alone, Is gone-in its place the birch tree is grown. And his good sword rust His soul is with the saints I trust! COLERIDGE. |