August the Twenty-fifth

Thomas Chatterton, Died 1770
Bret Harte, Born 1839

TO LUCASTA, GOING BEYOND THE SEAS

If to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that when I am gone

You or I were alone;

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail,

Or pay a tear to 'suage
The foaming blue-god's rage;
For whether he will let me pass

Or no, I'm still as happy as I was.

Though seas and land betwixt us both,

Our faith and troth,

Like separated souls,

All time and space controls:

Above the highest sphere we meet

Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet.

So then we do anticipate
Our after-fate,

And are alive i' the skies,

If thus our lips and eyes

Can speak like spirits unconfined
In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.

Richard Lovelace

THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD

Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl,

To purify the air;

Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,
On bracelets of thy hair.

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse
And wakes the louder drum;
Expense of grief gains no remorse,
When sorrow should be dumb:

For I must go, where lazy peace
Will hide her drowsy head;

And, for the sport of kings, increase
The number of the dead.

But first I'll chide thy cruel theft;
Can I in war delight,

Who, being of my heart bereft,

Can have no heart to fight?

Thou know'st the sacred laws of old

Ordained a thief should pay,

To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
What he had stol'n away.

Thy payment shall but double be;
Oh then with speed resign
My own seducèd heart to me,
Accompanied with thine.

Sir William Davenant

TO THE ROSE: A SONG

Go, happy Rose, and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fetter'd me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;
Tell her, if she struggle still,

I have myrtle rods (at wili)

For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thus, and go
And tell her this, but do not so!
Lest a handsome anger fly

Like a lightning from her eye,

And burn thee up, as well as I !

Robert Herrick

SONG

Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;

Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth!

Beaumont and Fletcher

J. W. von Goethe, Born 1749
Leigh Hunt, Died 1859

August the Twenty-eighth

WE HAVE SEEN THEE, O LOVE!

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou art goodly,
O Love;

Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a dove.
Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of the sea;
Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment of thee.
Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire;
Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire;
And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid;
Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom delight makes
afraid;

As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal breath:
But Fate is the name of her; and his name is Death.
Algernon Charles Swinburne

INSIGHT

Momentous to himself as I to me

Hath each man been that ever woman bore;

Once, in a lightning-flash of sympathy,
I felt this truth, an instant, and no more.

William Watson

THE MEN OF GOTHAM

Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine

And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift?

I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.

Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,

In a bowl Care may not be—
In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll?

No: in charmèd bowl we swim.

What the charm that floats the bowl?

Water may not pass the brim.

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.

And our ballast is old wine

And your ballast is old wine.

Thomas Love Peacock