« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »
And mercy (encouraging thought!)
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot!
EFTsoons they heard a most delicious sound
Of all that mote delight a dainty ear,
Such as at once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere.
Right hard it was for wighte which did it hear
To read what manner music that mote be;
For all that pleasing is to living ear
Was there consorted in one harmony -
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree !
The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade,
Their notes unto the voice attemper'd sweet ;
Th' angelical, soft, trembling voices, made
To th' instruments divine respondence meet,
With the base murmur of the water's fall;
The water's fall, with difference discreet,
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call;
The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.
The Importance of Trifles.
Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our mis’ry from our foibles springs ;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And few can save, or serve, but all can please, –
Oh! let th’ungentle spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain ;
But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
High pow'r to grace them, or to crown with health,
Our little lot denies : but Heav'n decrees
To all the gift of minist'ring to ease ;-
The gentle offices of patient love,
Beyond all flatt’ry, and all price above;
The mild forbearance of another's fault;
The taunting word suppress’d as soon as thought;
On these Heav'n bade the sweets of life depend,
And crush'd ill fortune when it made a friend.
A solitary blessing few can find;
Our joys with those we love are intertwin'd;
And he, whose wakeful tenderness removes
Th’obstructing thorn which wounds the breast he loves,
Smooths not another's rugged path alone,
But scatters roses to perfume his own.
Small slights, contempt, neglect, unmix'd with hate,
Make up in numbers what they want in weight:
These, and a thousand griefs minute as these,
Corrode our comforts, and destroy our peace.
Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us — oh! is all now forgot?
All school-days’ friendship, childhood, innocence ?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our neelds created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion ;
Both warbling of one song, both in one key;
As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet a union in partition;
Two lovely berries, moulded on one stem;
So with two seeming bodies, but one heart :
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.
And will you rend our ancient love asunder,
And join with men in scorning your poor friend ?
It is not friendly; 'tis not maidenly:
Our sex, as well as I, may
for it, Though I alone do feel the injury.
Satan's Address to the Sun.
O thou that, with surpassing glory crown'd,
Look’st from thy sole dominion, like the God
Of this new world ; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads,—to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere !
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down,
Warring in heav'n against heav’n’s matchless King.
Ah, wherefore? he desery'd no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none. Nor was his service hard :
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks ?
How due! Yet all his good prov'd ill in me,
And wrought but malice : listed up so high,
I ’sdained subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burdensome, still paying, still to owe;
Forgetful what from him I still receiv’d;
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharg'd.
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Burial of Sir John Moore.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dea of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him!
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we stedfastly gaz’d on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lowly pillow, The foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.