Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; That for an hermitage: If I have freedom in my love RICHARD LOVELACE. BEAUTY AND TIME. THE Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, As she thought of the Gardener standing by 66 He is old-so old! And he soon will die!" The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, And she spread, and spread, till her heart lay bare; And she laughed once more as she heard his tread"He is older now. He will soon be dead!" But the breeze of the morning blew, and found ground; And he came at noon, that Gardener old, And I wove the thing to a random rhyme, WHEN she comes home again! A thousand ways Of my glad welcome; I shall tremble-yes; I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise The room will sway a little, and a haze Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note Again is hidden in the old embrace. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S. (A proper new ballad of the country and the town.) THE ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon. The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; And runs to gather May dew The ladies of St. James's They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever, It trembles to a lily, It wavers to a rose. The ladies of St. James's With "Mercy!" and with "Lud!" They season all their speeches (They come of noble blood): But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are sweet as, after rain drops, The music of the birds. The ladies of St. James's They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you-for seconds, They frown on you—for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide Is always true--and mine. My Phyllida! my Phyllida! I care not though they heap AUSTIN DOBSON. |