99

LIFE AND DEATH

LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part:
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather. 'Tis hard to part when friends are dearPerhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear.

Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;

Say not good-night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me good-morning.

Anna Lætitia Barbauld.

(The Siege of Corinth.)

IN the year since Jesus died for men,
Eighteen hundred years and ten,
We were a gallant company

Riding o'er land and sailing o'er sea.
Oh, but we went merrily!

We forded the river and clomb the high hill,
Never our steeds for a day stood still.
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed:
Whether we couched in our rough capote,
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,

Or stretched on the beach, or our saddles spread
As a pillow beneath the resting head,
Fresh we woke upon the morrow:

All our thoughts and words had scope,
We had health and we had hope,

Toil and travel, but no sorrow.
We were of all tongues and creeds:
Some were those who counted beads,
Some of mosque, and some of church,

And some, or I mis-say, of neither;
Yet through the wide world might ye search,
Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.
But some are dead, and some are gone,
And some are scattered and alone,

And some are rebels on the hills

That look along Epirus' valleys,

Where Freedom still at moment rallies,

And pays in blood oppression's ills;
And some are in a far countree,
And some all restlessly at home;

But never more, ah never, we
Shall meet to revel and to roam!

But those hardy days flew cheerily,
And when they now fall drearily,

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main
And bear my spirit back again

Over the earth, and through the air,

A wild bird and a wanderer.

Lord Byron.

ΙΟΙ

THE SPIRIT OF DELIGHT

RARELY, rarely comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.

Spirit false! thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

L

Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure ;-
Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasure;
Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh earth in new leaves dressed,
And the starry night,

Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;

I love waves and winds and storms,-
Everything almost

Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,
And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good.

Between thee and me

What difference? But thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love, though he has wings,
And like light can flee;

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

Thou art love and life!

Oh come,

Make once more my heart thy home!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

102

THE SOLITARY REAPER

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day,

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;—
I listened till I had my fill,
And when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth.