Volume Ii Part 28 (1/2)
Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Amid the unviolated grove, Housed near the growing primrose tuft In foresight, or in love.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
ON A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES.
'Twas on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair, round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,-- She saw, and purred applause.
Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize,-- What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between,-- Malignant Fate sat by and smiled,-- The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in!
Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery G.o.d Some speedy aid to send: No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard,-- A favorite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all that glitters gold!
THOMAS GRAY.
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland La.s.s!
Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pa.s.s!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands; A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard, In springtime from the cuckoo bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.