A red, red Rose. O MY luve's like a red, red rose, That's sweetly played in tune. And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. BURNS. To the Nightingale. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon blooming spray First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, As thou from year to year has sung too late Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. MILTON. Sonnet. THRICE happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world doth live his own, Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal Love: O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN. Go, lovely Rose! Song. Tell her that wastes her time and me, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share WALLER The Sabbath Bells. THE cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired Of controversy, where no end appears, No clue to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again. Him thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute And softens with the love of human kind. CHARLES LAMB. |