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March the Twenty-fourth

H. W. Longfellow, Died 1882
William Morris, Born 1834

BEAUTY

'Tis much immortal beauty to admire,
But more immortal beauty to withstand;
The perfect soul can overcome desire,

If beauty with divine delight be scann'd.
For what is beauty, but the blooming child
Of fair Olympus, that in night must end,
And be for ever from that bliss exiled,

If admiration stand too much its friend?
The wind may be enamoured of a flower,
The ocean of the green and laughing shore,
The silver lightning of a lofty tower

But must not with too near a love adore;
Or flower, and margin, and cloud-cappèd tower,
Love and delight shall with delight devour!
Lord Edward Thurlow

WHO IS SILVIA?

Who is Silvia? what is she,

That all the swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise, is she;

The heavens such grace did lend her

That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair,

For beauty lives with kindness?
Love doth to her eyes repair
To help him of his blindness

And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring.

William Shakespeare

SONG

How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing,
Love has bliss, but love has rueing;
Other smiles may make you fickle,
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;
Longest stays when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies when press'd and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odour to the lily,

Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,

Then bind love to last for ever!

Love's a fire that needs renewal

Of fresh beauty for its fuel;

Love's wing moults when caged and captur'd, Only free he soars enraptur'd.

Can you keep the bee from ranging,

Or the ring-dove's neck from changing?

No! nor fettered Love from dying
In the knot there's no untying.

Thomas Campbell

TO BLOSSOMS

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

Robert Herrick

THE MAID'S LAMENT

I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!
I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years,
Wept he as bitter tears!

• Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer,
"These may she never share!"

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate
His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,

And Oh, pray, too, for me!

Walter Savage Landor

TIME TO BE WISE

Yes; I write verses now and then,
But blunt and flaccid is my pen,
No longer talk'd of by young men
As rather clever;

In the last quarter are my eyes,
You see it by their form and size;
Is it not time then to be wise?
Or now or never.

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve!
While Time allows the short reprieve,
Just look at me! would you believe
'Twas once a lover?

I cannot clear the five-bar gate;
But, trying first its timber's state,
Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait
To trundle over.

Through gallopade I cannot swing
The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring:
I cannot say the tender thing,

Be't true or false,

And am beginning to opine
Those girls are only half divine
Whose waists you wicked boys entwine

In giddy waltz.

I fear that arm above that shoulder;
I wish them wiser, graver, older,
Sedater, and no harm if colder,

And panting less.

Ah! people were not half so wild
In former days, when, starchly mild,
Upon her high-heel'd Essex smil'd
The brave Queen Bess.

Walter Savage Landor

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