Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 86

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

Sir William Jones. 1746-1794

478. Epigram

ON parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled: So live, that sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep.

Thomas Chatterton. 1752-1770

479. Song from Aella

O SING unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holyday, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Black his cryne as the winter night, White his rode as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O he lies by the willow-tree!

My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon s.h.i.+nes on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud: Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll dent the briers Round his holy corse to gre: Ouph and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.

cryne] hair. rode] complexion. dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph]

elf.

George Crabbe. 1754-1832

480. Meeting

MY Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away!

Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this?

But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live But that we meet, and that we love.

George Crabbe. 1754-1832

481. Late Wisdom

WE'VE trod the maze of error round, Long wandering in the winding glade; And now the torch of truth is found, It only shows us where we strayed: By long experience taught, we know-- Can rightly judge of friends and foes; Can all the worth of these allow, And all the faults discern in those.

Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell The wildest pa.s.sions in their rage, Can their destructive force repel, And their impetuous wrath a.s.suage.-- Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now This bold rebellious race are fled?

When all these tyrants rest, and thou Art warring with the mighty dead?

George Crabbe. 1754-1832

482. A Marriage Ring

THE ring, so worn as you behold, So thin, so pale, is yet of gold: The pa.s.sion such it was to prove-- Worn with life's care, love yet was love.

William Blake. 1757-1827

483. To the Muses

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you!

The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few.

William Blake. 1757-1827

484. To Spring

O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down Through the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

William Blake. 1757-1827

485. Song

MY silks and fine array, My smiles and languish'd air, By Love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was 't given, Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is Love's all-wors.h.i.+pp'd tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.