Song! made in lieu of many ornaments, Ye would not stay your dew time to expect, Be unto her a goodly ornament, And for short time an endlesse moniment. Edmund Spenser 137 SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD EEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, Father's sorrow, father's joy; When thy father first did see Last his sorrow, first his joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, Like pearl drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, More he crowed, more he cried, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, Robert Greene 138 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS E walked along, while bright and red And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, A village schoolmaster was he, As blithe a man as you could see And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills, We traveled merrily, to pass "Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop; Upon the eastern mountain top, "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft A day like this, which I have left "And just above yon slope of corn "With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the churchyard come, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave. "Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang;-she would have been A very nightingale. "Six feet in earth my Emma lay; "And turning from her grave, I met A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet "A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: It was a pure delight! "No fountain from its rocky cave "There came from me a sigh of pain I looked at her, and looked again: -Matthew is in his grave, yet now As at that moment, with a bough William Wordsworth 139 URPRISED by joy-impatient as the Wind But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind- Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss?—That thought's return Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 140 TO MARY1 William Wordsworth 'HE twentieth year is well-nigh past THE Since first our sky was overcast ; Ah, would that this might be the last! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow— 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, For though thou gladly wouldst fulfill The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, But well thou playedst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! 1 Mrs. Mary Unwin, in whose home the poet, who was of infirm health, pent a great part of his life. |