Yet now despair itself is mild

Even as the winds and waters are ;
I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. P. B. Shelley

CCXXVIII

THE SCHOLAR

MY days among the Dead are past ;

Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:

My never failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd

With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them

I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,

And I with them shall travel on

Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,

That will not perish in the dust.

R. Southey

CCXXIX

THE MERMAID TAVERN

S

OULS of Poets dead and gone

What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of Venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his Maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's signboard flew away
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill

To a sheepskin gave the story —
Said he saw you in your glory
Underneath a new-old Sign
Sipping beverage divine,

And pledging with contented smack

The Mermaid in the Zodiac !

Souls of Poets dead and gone
What Elysium have ye known—
Happy field or mossy cavern-

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

J. Keats

CCXXX

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH

PROM

ROUD Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush
Singing so rarely.

'The glowworm o'er grave and stone

Shall light thee steady;

The owl from the steeple sing

Welcome, proud lady.'

Sir W. Scott

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