And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we die with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath and say, "I will be sorry for their childishness." COVENTRY PATMORE. BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. 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, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: 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! WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. "Drowned! drowned!"-Hamlet. ONE more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully; Gently and humanly; Make no deep scrutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family— Wipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Love, by harsh evidence, Where the lamps quiver With many a light From window and casement, The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurl'dAnywhere, anywhere Out of the world! In she plunged boldly, The rough river ran,— Dissolute man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can! |