ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

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If I had but four cows myself, even though you were

my spouse,

I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of

Three Cows!

James Clarence Mangan.

MY

A FAREWELL.

Y fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you

For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
And so make life, death, and that vast forever
One grand sweet song.

Charles Kingsley.

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

HOU still unravished bride of quietness!

TH

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time!

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme!
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone!

Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal; yet do not grieve,

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss; Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu :
And happy melodist, unweariéd,

Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,

Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?

LINES ON A SKELETON.

What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
Ah, little town, thy streets forevermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed!
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought,
As doth eternity. Cold pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

201

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st “Beauty is truth, truth beauty," that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

John Keats.

B

LINES ON A SKELETON.

EHOLD this ruin! "T was a skull

Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was Life's retreat,
This space was Thought's mysterious seat.
What beauteous visions filled this spot,
What dreams of pleasure long forgot,
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,
Have left one trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye,
But start not at the dismal void, -
If social love that eye employed,

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dews of kindness beamed, That eye shall be forever bright

When stars and sun are sunk in night.

Within this hollow cavern hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;
If Falsehood's honey it disdained,

And when it could not praise was chained;
If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke,

This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When Time unveils Eternity!

Say, did these fingers delve the mine?
Or with the envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock or wear a gem
Can little now avail to them.
But if the page of Truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod
These feet the paths of duty trod?
If from the bowers of Ease they fled,
To seek Affliction's humble shed;

VIRTUE.

If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to Virtue's cot returned,
These feet with angel wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky!

Anonymous.

ST

VIRTUE.

WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,

Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows you have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But when the whole world turns to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert.

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