Volume Iii Part 37 (1/2)

FORBEARANCE.

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?

Loved the wood rose, and left it on its stalk?

At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?

Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?

And loved so well a high behavior, In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, n.o.bility more n.o.bly to repay?

O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

A CONSOLATION.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate; Wis.h.i.+ng me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee--and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY.]

TO A SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest; Like a cloud of fire The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not; What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among he flowers and gra.s.s, which screen it from the view: