March the Twenty-fourth H. W. Longfellow, Died 1882 BEAUTY 'Tis much immortal beauty to admire, If beauty with divine delight be scann'd. If admiration stand too much its friend? But must not with too near a love adore; 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? And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing William Shakespeare SONG How delicious is the winning Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, Love he comes and Love he tarries, Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 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 Thomas Campbell TO BLOSSOMS Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we Into the grave. Robert Herrick THE MAID'S LAMENT I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone, I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak, For reasons not to love him once I sought, To vex myself and him: I now would give Who lately lived for me, and when he found He hid his face amid the shades of death! Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years, • Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate 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, In the last quarter are my eyes, Fairest that ever sprang from Eve! I cannot clear the five-bar gate; Through gallopade I cannot swing Be't true or false, And am beginning to opine In giddy waltz. I fear that arm above that shoulder; And panting less. Ah! people were not half so wild Walter Savage Landor |