THE HUMAN SEASONS Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; He has his Summer, when luxuriously His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, John Keats SOUL AND BODY Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, THE GOOD GREAT MAN How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain! Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain? Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The great good man? Three treasures, — love, and light, Samuel Taylor Coleridge FREDERICKSBURG The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed, Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath; Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath; Hark! the artillery massing on the right, Hark! the black squadrons wheeling down to Death! AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL Weep with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed It was a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive Years he numbered scarce thirteen When fates turned cruel, Yet three filled zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly, Ah, sooth, the Parcae thought him one He played so truly. So by error to his fate They all consented, But viewing him since, alas too late, They have repented; And have sought, to give new birth, In baths to steep him; But being so much too good for earth, Ben Jonson HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I have won I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: And having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more. John Donne SLEEP, SILENCE' CHILD Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath : William Drummond MY GARDEN A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Fern'd grot The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not — Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign; 'Tis very sure God walks in mine. Thomas Edward Brown |