HOARDED JOY. SAID: "Nay, pluck not,-let the first fruit be; But let it ripen still. The tree's bent head And bides the day of fulness. Shall not we At the sun's hour that day possess the shade, And claim our fruit before its ripeness fade, And eat it from the branch and praise the tree?" I say: "Alas! our fruit hath wooed the sun Too long, 'tis fallen and floats adown the stream. Lo, the last clusters! Pluck them every one, And let us sup with summer; ere the gleam DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. RURAL NATURE. HERE art thou loveliest, O Nature, tell! Oh where may be thy Paradise? Where grow Thy happiest groves? And down what woody dell Do thy most fancy-winning waters flow? Tell where thy softest breezes longest blow? And where thy ever blissful mountains swell Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw Eternal summer, while the air may quell His fury. Is it 'neath his morning car, Where jewell'd palaces, and golden thrones, Have aw'd the eastern nations through all time? Or o'er the western seas, or where afar Our winter sun warms up the southern zones With summer? Where can be the happy climes? WILLIAM BARNES. HEN man alone, or leagued in governments, The works of Christian duty would fulfil, His faltering steps defeat his anxious will, As heights attain'd reveal but fresh ascents : How poor his efforts to his high intents! Fain would he uproot every human ill; But fields neglected open to him still, And woe on woe its piteous tale presents. Nature alone succeeds in all she tries: She drops her dews, and not a flower is miss'd; Till stony ways and wilds antagonist To show the power in gentleness that lies. JAMES HEDDERWICK. HERE never yet was flower fair in vain, The seasons toil that it may blow again, And summer's heart doth feel its every ill; Nor is a true soul ever born for naught; There hath been something for true freedom wrought, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. OT may be that our homeward longings made But fairer in my sight the mottled skies, Tended, and growing up thro' sun and shower. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. |