Dared forsake that amorous heaven, Changed and careless soon. Oh what is all beneath the moon. When his heart will answer not? What are all the dreams of noon With our love forgot? Heedless of the world she went, And struck her to this sleep of stone. Look! Did old Pygmalion Sculpture thus, or more prevail, When he drew the living tone From the marble pale? The primrose to the grave is gone: The hawthorn flower is dead; But thou, wild bramble, back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring To gad with thee the woodlands o'er EBENEZER ELLIOTT. BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. THY So THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. HY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, put thou forth thy small white rose : Thy satin-threaded flowers; Amid all beauty beautiful, How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! And thou sing'st hymns to them, And 'mid the general hush Lone whispering through the bush! Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him: I now would give My love could he but live Who lately lived for me; and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death. I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lone bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears. "Merciful God"-such was his latest prayer "These may she never share!" Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mould Where children spell athwart the churchyard | Oft through the forest's dim mysterious shade, CLERK there was of Oxenford also, For hopes we framed while drinking in the As lenè was his horse as is a rake, breeze? Ah! they were bright, those dreams of those dreams of days gone by. And he was not right fat, I undertake ; Call back those years to mind when, children Ne was not worldly to have office; both, For him was liefer han at his bed's head Our life ran on all shadowed o'er with joy; When day by day the radiant star of troth Shone through our heart in gleams without alloy. Then, when thou sang'st, in Nature's bosom Yet hadde he but little gold in coffer; shrined, But all that he might of his friendès hent Each feathered songster paused to drink On bookès and on learning he it spent, thy lay, And busily 'gan for the soulés pray Whilst I thy waist with blooming garlands Of hem that gave him wherewith to schotwined: lay. How fresh they were, those flowers of Of study took he moste cure and heed; childhood's day! Not ae word spake he more than was need; And that was said in form and reverence, And short and quick, and full of high sen tence; Sounding in moral virtue was his speech, And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach. GEOFFREY CHAUCER. FREEDOM IS A NOBLE THING. H! freedom is a noble thing! AH! : Freedom makes man to have liking; Freedom all solace to man gives; He lives at ease that freely lives. A noble heart may have nane ease, Ne ellys aught that him may please Gif freedom faileth for free liking Is yearnit ower all other thing; Nor he that aye has livit free May not know weel the propertie, The anger, ne the wretched doom, That is coupled to foul thirldom; But, gif he had essayèd it, Then all perquére he should it wit, And should think freedom mair to prize Than all the gold in the world that is. |