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They say was nourished by th' Iœan maid; And in his hand a broad deep bowl he bears, Of which he freely drinks an health to all his peers. Then came old January, wrapped well In many weeds, to keep the cold away, Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell, And blow his nails to warm them if he may, For they were numbed with holding all the day An hatchet keen, with which he felled wood, And from the trees did lop the needless spray, Upon an huge great Earth-pot steane he stood, From whose wide mouth there flowèd forth the Roman flood.
And lastly came old February, sitting
In an old waggon, for he could not ride,
Of hasting prime did make them burgeon round.
So past the Twelve Months forth, and their due places found.
And after these there came the Day and Night,
Riding together both with equal pace;
Th' one on a palfrey black, the other white;
The goodly sun, encompassed all with beamès bright.
Then came the Hours, fair daughters of high Jove
And after all came Life, and lastly Death;
Full of delightful health and lively joy,
Decked all with flowers, and wings of gold fit to employ.
Within and Without.
A LONDON LYRIC.
The winds are bitter; the skies are wild;
From the roof comes plunging the drowning rain:
Sobbeth abroad her grief, her pain!
No one heareth her, no one heedeth her:
But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand, Grasps her throat, whispering huskily—
"What dost thou in a Christian land?"
The skies are wild, and the blast is cold;
She who is slain in the winter weather,
Ah! she had once a village fame;
Had gentleness-vanity-maiden shame;
The harlot's fame was her doom to-day,
While the world runs merry as heretofore!
He who yon lordly feast enjoyeth,
He who doth rest on his couch of down, He it was, who threw the forsaken
Under the feet of the trampling town: Liar,-betrayer,--false as cruel,
What is the doom for his dastard sin?
His peers, they scorn? high dames, they shun him?—
There, yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded,
Maidens as fair as the summer morning,
Watching him rise from the sparkling wine. Mothers all proffer their stainless daughters;
Men of high honour salute him "friend;" Skies! oh, where are your cleansing waters? World! oh, where do thy wonders end?
The Flower's Name.
HERE's the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since:
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.
Down this side of the gravel-walk
She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white flox. Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you, noble roses, I know;
But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie.
This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;
Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake?
Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase !
And ever I see her soft white fingers