August the Twenty-fifth Thomas Chatterton, Died 1770 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 Or pay a tear to 'suage 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 And are alive i' the skies, If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined Richard Lovelace THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl, To purify the air; Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl, The trumpet makes the echo hoarse For I must go, where lazy peace And, for the sport of kings, increase But first I'll chide thy cruel theft; 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 Thy payment shall but double be; Sir William Davenant TO THE ROSE: A SONG Go, happy Rose, and, interwove Say, if she's fretful, I have bands I have myrtle rods (at wili) For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing thus, and go Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I ! Robert Herrick SONG Lay a garland on my hearse Maidens, willow branches bear; My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Lightly, gentle earth! Beaumont and Fletcher J. W. von Goethe, Born 1749 August the Twenty-eighth WE HAVE SEEN THEE, O LOVE! We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou art goodly, Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a dove. As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal breath: INSIGHT Momentous to himself as I to me Hath each man been that ever woman bore; Once, in a lightning-flash of sympathy, William Watson THE MEN OF GOTHAM Seamen three! What men be ye? And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, 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 |