How best to help the slender store,
How mend the dwellings, of the poor;
How gain in life, as life advances,
Valour and charity more and more.

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet
Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ;

But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,

For those are few we hold as dear;

Nor pay but one, but come for many,

Many and many a happy year.

163

The King fisher

Tennyson, 1854.

It was the Rainbow gave thee birth,
And left thee all her lovely hues ;
And, as her mother's name was Tears,
So runs it in thy blood to choose
For haunts the lonely pools, and keep
In company with trees that weep.

Go you and, with such glorious hues,
Live with proud Peacocks in green parks;
On lawns as smooth as shining glass,
Let every feather show its marks;

Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings.
Before the windows of proud kings.

Nay, lovely bird, thou art not vain ;
Thou hast no proud ambitious mind :
I also love a quiet place

That's green, away from all mankind;
A lonely pool, and let a tree
Sigh with her bosom over me.

W. H. Davies.

164 To Lucasta, on Going to the
Wars

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore ;

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.

166

HER strong enchantments failing,
Her towers of fear in wreck,
Her limbecks dried of poisons
And the knife at her neck,

The Queen of air and darkness
Begins to shrill and cry,
'O young man, O my slayer,
To-morrow you shall die.'

O Queen of air and darkness,
I think 'tis truth you say,
And I shall die to-morrow;
But you will die to-day.'

A. E. Housman.

167

The Spirit's Warfare

To find the Western path,
Right through the Gates of Wrath
I urge my way;
Sweet Mercy leads me on

With soft repentant moan :

I see the break of day.

The war of swords and spears,
Melted by dewy tears,

Exhales on high;

The Sun is freed from fears,

And with soft grateful tears

Ascends the sky.

limbeck]=alembic, the vessel used in distilling,

Blake.

168

169

Song

So, we 'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,

Tho' the heart be still as loving

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Tho' the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we 'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.

Napoleon's Farewell

Byron.

FAREWELL to the Land where the gloom of my Glory
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name-
She abandons me now-but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame.
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,

The last single Captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,—
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles were wonThen the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun!

Farewell to thee, France !-but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then-
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again—
Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice—
There are links which must break in the chain that has
bound us,

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice.

Byron, 1816.

170 Song from As You Like It'

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

Heigh ho sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly.

Shakespeare.