With Thought and Love companions of our way The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews William Wordsworth 9 WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE AX not the royal Saint with vain expense, TAX Twith ill-matched aims the Architect who planned (Albeit laboring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense William Wordsworth Y THE SCHOLAR My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, With them I take delight in weal And while I understand and feel My cheeks have often been bedewed My thoughts are with the Dead; with them. Their virtues love, their faults condemn, And from their lessons seek and find My hopes are with the Dead; anon Yet leaving here a name, I trust, Robert Southey 181 I THE ANGLER'S WISH IN these flowery meads would be, I, with my angle, would rejoice, Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Or, on that bank, feel the west wind To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, Or a laverock build her nest; Here, give my weary spirits rest, And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Or, with my Bryan and a book, And angle on; and beg to have Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. 1 Said by the author to have been written when he was about twelve ears old. Blest, who can unconcernedly find Sound sleep by night; study and ease Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Alexander Pope 183 A' TO SLEEP FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trèes, Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? ROUGH A DIRGE wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Deep caves and dreary main, Wail, for the world's wrong! Percy Bysshe Shelley 186 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT 2 VENGE, O Lord! Thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones Αν Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, 1 Sung by "a girl, Pippa, from the silk mills," in Pippa Passes, a drama. 2 The massacre, in 1655, of the Vaudois, or Waldenses, a Christian community living amid the high Alps of Piedmont, in the northwestern part of Italy. This "pious, inoffensive people: dear to the hearts and imaginations of all Protestant men" (Carlyle) was in the past repeatedly subjected to persecution because of its refusal to unite with the Roman Catholic Church-the "triple tyrant" of the poem. |