Scorned bramble of the brake! once moro To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, CCXCIX. REGINALD HEBER, 1783-1826. When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil; When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil; When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood ; In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade, The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy glade; The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon and stars, their Master's name in silent pomp display. Shall man, the lord of Nature, expectant of the sky, The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade, The Autumn droop in Winter, the birds forsake the shade; The winds be lull'd-the sun and moon forget their old decree, But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee. 2. JUDEA. O feeble boast of transitory power! Vain, fruitless trust of Judah's happier hour! Not such their hope, when through the parted main Not such their hope when through the fields of night Not, when fierce Conquest urg'd the onward war, 3. HYMN. From Greenland's icy mountains, Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Bows down to wood and stone. Till each remotest nation It spreads from pole to pole! CCC. JANE TAYLOR, 1783-1824. THE POOR FLY. too high; So, so, you are running away, Mr Fly, Oh Charles! cruel Charles! you have kill'd the poor fly, Poor thing as it buzz'd up and down on the glass, CCCI. ANN TAYLOR, 178*-18**. A VERY SORROWFUL STORY. I'll tell you a story, come, sit on my knee; He'd a fine merry boy, (such another as you,) So he hoped that, one day, when his darling should grow But what do you think came of all this at last? So he wander'd about in the frost and the snow! And the tears, poor old man, oh! how fast they did pour: CCCII. LEIGH HUNT, 1784-1859. 1. THE HORSE. A noble horse, With flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean, 2. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them sat the count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd. And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis then, " Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." Delorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me: King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine. She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed and in a moment leaped among the lions wild : The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat, "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!" |