Memorabilia H, did you once see Shelley plain, But you were living before that, My starting moves your laughter. I crossed a moor, with a name of its own For there I picked up on the heather H Keats Robert Browning. E has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. He lives, he wakes-'t is Death is dead, not he; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! He is made one with Nature: there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Shelley. At the grave of Charles Lamb in Edmonton OT here, O teeming City, was it meet Thy lover, thy most faithful, should repose, But where the multitudinous life-tide flows Whose ocean-murmur was to him more sweet Than melody of birds at morn, or bleat Of flocks in Spring-time, there should Earth enclose His earth, amid thy thronging joys and woes, There, 'neath the music of thy million feet. In love of thee this lover knew no peer. Thine eastern or thy western fane had made Fit habitation for his noble shade. Mother of mightier, nurse of none more dear, HAT needs his laurel our ephemeral tears, W Not in this temporal light alone, that bay Blooms, nor to perishable mundane ears Sings he with lips of transitory clay. Rapt though he be from us, Virgil salutes him, and Theocritus; Catullus, mightiest-brained Lucretius, each Coleridge, his locks aspersed with fairy foam, His equal friendship crave: And godlike spirits hail him guest, in speech Of Athens, Florence, Weimar, Stratford, Rome. The seasons change, the winds they shift and veer; The grass of yester-year Is dead; the birds depart, the groves decay: Song passes not away. Captains and conquerors leave a little dust, And kings a dubious legend of their reign; Dead is Augustus, Maro is alive; And thou, the Mantuan of this age and soil, Enriching Time with no less honeyed spoil, H William Watson. Charles Kingsley EACHERS pass; and the lesson-pages are torn, But, at least, this man has helped us to hear Of the wordless song whose wandering mur murs float From fields that the sunlight splashes with golden-brown As it plays on the shocks of corn, from woods that crown The sloping ridges, from meadow and lane and heath, And crowded pines, with a blush of heather beneath, And the stream where the fat trout lie;-oh, here is rest From the world, with its fevered brain and panting breast, And Youth comes back with its visions, and that sweet dawn Of Hope, that lighted the dew upon dream-land's lawn, And set all the colours aflame in the garden-beds Where the flowers of love and glory lifted their heads, And we see the land we had lost, and forget the din L A. E. J. Legge. Robert Louis Stevenson ONG, hatchet face, black hair, and haunting gaze That follows, as you move about the room, Ah! this is he who trod the darkening ways, And plucked the flowers upon the edge of doom The bright, sweet-scented flowers that star the road To Death's dim dwelling. Others heed them not, But he went laughing down the shadowed way, The high Gods gave him wine to drink; a cup Smiling, then turned unto his flowers again. These are the flowers of that immortal strain Which, when the hand that plucked them drops and dies, Still keep their radiant beauty free from stain, And breathe their fragrance through the centuries. (B 838) B. Faul Neumar 22 |