Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips Lest the wise world should look into your and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. SONNET. TIRED with all these, for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honor shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive Good attending Captain Ill; Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. SONNET. No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly, sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. Oh, if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life de cay, SONNET. WHEN in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. EPITHALAMIUM. I SAW two clouds at morning, I thought that morning cloud was bless'd, I saw two summer currents Flow smoothly to their meeting, And join their course, with silent force, In peace each other greeting; Calm was their course through banks of green, While dimpling eddies play'd between. Till life's last pulse shall beat; For we, which now behold these present A calmer sea, where storms shall cease days, A purer sky, where all is peace. JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. SONNET. SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or Nature's changing course, untrimm'd. But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest, Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest. BRIDAL SONG. To the sound of timbrels sweet Thou hast left the joyous feast, HENRY HART MILMAN. TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING. BID me to live, and I will live Thy protestant to be: Or bid me love, and I will give A heart as soft, a heart as kind, As in the whole world thou canst find, Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honor thy decree: Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see: A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree: E'en death, to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, And hast command of every part, ROBERT HERRICK. THE CHRONICLE: A BALLAD. MARGARITA first possess'd, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita first of all; But when a while the wanton maid Martha soon did it resign Beauteous Catharine gave place Mary then, and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began; Alternately they sway'd, And sometimes Mary was the fair, Had not Rebecca set me free. But soon those pleasures fled; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days and half an hour Judith held the sovereign power: Wondrous beautiful her face, And so Susanna took her place. And th' artillery of her eye, She beat out Susan by-the-by. But in her place I then obey'd Bless me from such an anarchy! Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary, next began: And then a long et cetera. But should I now to you relate If I should tell the politic arts The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, the smiles and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless mysteries! And all the little lime-twigs laid I more voluminous should grow But I will briefer with them be, My present emperess does claim, ABRAHAM COWLEY. ON THE DOORSTEP. THE Conference-meeting through at last, Not braver he that leaps the wall By level musket-flashes litten, Than I, who stepped before them all, Who longed to see me get the mitten. But no; she blushed, and took my arm! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way. I can't remember what we said, 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed and in a glory. The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming. The little hand outside her muff O sculptor, if you could but mold it!— So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it. To have her with me there alone, 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended. The old folks, too, were almost home; Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled, But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said, "Come, now or never! do it! do it!" My lips till then had only known O listless woman, weary lover! To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. PERSONAL POEMS. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN ! A DIRGE FOR LINCOLN. O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But, O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, ON A BUST OF DANTE. SEE, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim, The father was of Tuscan song! There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care, and scorn, abideSmall friendship for the lordly throng, Distrust of all the world beside. Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his life was-but a fight; Where on the deck my Captain lies, Could any Beatrice see Fallen cold and dead. A lover in that anchorite? Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight the bells; Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreathsfor you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! It is some dream that on the deck, My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! WALT WHITMAN. Who could have guessed the visions came Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame? The lips as Cuma's cavern close, The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe, Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the pilgrim guest, The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was rest. Peace dwells not here this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. |