One spake, with quivering lip, Of a fair freighted ship, With all his household to the deep gone down; For a fair face long ago Lost in the darker depths of a great town. There were who mourned their youth For its brave hopes and memories ever green; Turned an eye that would not rest, For far-off hills whereon its joy had been. Some talked of vanished gold, Some of proud honors told, Some spake of friends that were their trust no more; And one of a green grave Beside a foreign wave, That made him sit so lonely on the shore. But when their tales were done, There spake among them one, A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free: "Sad losses have ye met, But mine is heavier yet; For a believing heart hath gone from me." "Alas!" these pilgrims said, "For the living and the dead For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, For the wrecks of land and sea! But, however it came to thee, Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." FRANCES BROWN. ON HIS BLINDNESS. 26 H The Good Great Man. WOW seldom, friend, a good great man inherits Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains! It seems a story from the world of spirits When any man obtains that which he merits, For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain ! Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain? The good great man? Three treasures—love, and light, SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. On His Blindness. HEN I consider how my light is spent WH Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent My true account, lest he returning chide - I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need JOHN MILTON. CYR To Cyriack Skinner. 'YRIACK, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, Content, though blind, had I no better guide. JOHN MILTON. Virtue. WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sw The bridal of the earth and sky! The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in the grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, LYCIDAS. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole would turn to coal, GEORGE HERBERT. Y Lycidas. ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Begin, then, Sisters of the Sacred Well, So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favor my destined urn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud; For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 263 Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel But O the heavy change, now thou art gone--- The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream- Had ye been there-for what could that have done? Whom universal Nature did lament, When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, Alas! what boots it with incessant care |