From the bleak northern blast may my cot be com

pletely Secured by a neighbouring hill ; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly

By the sound of a murmuring rill :
And while peace and plenty I find at my board,

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
With my friends may I share what Today may afford,

And let them spread the table Tomorrow. And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring

Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave l’ll not seek to keep

hov'ring, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : But my face the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is thread bare Today May become Everlasting Tomorrow.

J. Collins

CCVII

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 dear-
I'erhaps ’t will 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.

A. L. Barbauld

The Golden Treasury

Book Fourth

CCVIII

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.

W. Blake

CCIX

ODE ON THE POETS

Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new?

-Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon ;
With the noise of fountains wondrous
And the parle of voices thund'rous ;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not ;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, trancéd thing,
But divine melodious truth ;
Philosophic numbers smooth ;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again ;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you,
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumber'd never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week ;
Of their sorrows and delights ;
Of their passions and their spites ;
Of their glory and their shame ;
What doth strengthen and what maim :-
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth !
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new !

J. Keats

.

CCX

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S

HOMER

Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne :
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold :
-Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

J. Keats

CCXI

LOVE

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,

And fed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When mid-way on the mount I lay,

Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve !

She lean'd against the arméd man,
The statue of the arméd knight ;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well

That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen’d with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he woo'd

The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined : and ah !
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love

Interpreted my own.
She listen’d with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ;
And she forgave me, that I gazed

Too fondly on her face ! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shacle, And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,