That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so, to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold: Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth: And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals grey: He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropped into the western bay. At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
Dead, The, II, 439 Great Lover, The, 305
Pine Trees and the Sky: Evening, 247 Soldier, The, 438
BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT Musical Instrument, A, 484 BROWNING, ROBERT Cavalier Tunes, 143 Hervé Riel, 146
Home Thoughts from Abroad, 572 How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 77
Incident of the French Camp, 75 Lost Leader, The, 567
Love among the Ruins, 569 Meeting at Night, 568 My Last Duchess, 574 Parting at Morning, 569 Prospice, 573
Rabbi Ben Ezra, from, 575
Song (from Pippa Passes), 568
BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN
Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood, 472
Thanatopsis, 473
To a Waterfowl, 250
To the Evening Wind, 248
BURNS, ROBERT
Auld Lang Syne, 70
Banks o' Doon, The, 244
Brigs of Ayr, from The, 509
Cotter's Saturday Night, The, 531
Epistle to a Young Friend, 528
Epistle to James Smith, 515
Epistle to John Lapraik, from, 512 For A' That and A' That, 240 Gloomy Night Is Gath'ring Fast, The, 511
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