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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,
Drawn of two fishes for the season fitting,
Which through the flood before did softly slide
And swim away; yet had he by his side
His plough and harness fit to till the ground,
And tools to prune the trees, before the pride

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;
But Night had covered her uncomely face
With a black veil, and held in hand a mace,
On top whereof the moon and stars were pight,
And sleep and darkness round about did trace;
But Day did bear upon his sceptre's height

The goodly sun, encompassed all with beamès bright.

Then came the Hours, fair daughters of high Jove
And timely Night, the which were all endued
With wondrous beauty, fit to kindle love;
But they were virgins all, and love eschewed,
That might forslak the charge to them foreshewed
By mighty Jove, who did them porters make
Of heaven's gate, (whence all the gods issued)
Which they did daily watch and nightly wake
By even turns, nor ever did their charge forsake.

And after all came Life, and lastly Death;
Death with most grim and grisly visage seen,
Yet is he nought but parting of the breath,
Ne ought to see, but like a shade to ween,
Unbodied, unsouled, unheard, unseen;
But Life was like a fair young lusty boy,
Such as they feign Dan Cupid to have been,

Full of delightful health and lively joy,

Decked all with flowers, and wings of gold fit to employ.

Within and Without.




The winds are bitter; the skies are wild;

From the roof comes plunging the drowning rain:
Without,-in tatters, the world's poor child

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;
Yet riot and luxury brawl within:
Slaves are waiting, in crimson and gold,
Waiting the nod of a child of sin.
The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling
Up in each glass to its beaded brim :
The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing
"Happiness,"" honour,”—and all for him!


She who is slain in the winter weather,

Ah! she had once a village fame;
Listened to love on the moon-lit heather;

Had gentleness-vanity-maiden shame;
Now, her allies are the Tempest howling;
Prodigal's curses; self-disdain;
Poverty; misery: Well, no matter;
There is an end unto every pain!

The harlot's fame was her doom to-day,
Disdain; despair; by to-morrow's light
The ragged boards and the pauper's pall;
And so she'll be given to dusty night!
Without a tear or a human sigh,
She's gone,-poor life and its "fever" o'er!
So, let her in calm oblivion lie;

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?—
Unbar yon palace, and gaze within.

There, yet his deeds are all trumpet-sounded,
There, upon silken seats recline

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:
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung;

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;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name? was it love or praise?

Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.


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 !
But do not detain me now; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground,

And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.

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