Volume Iii Part 9 (1/2)
I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless: Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory?
--I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; s.h.i.+ne through the gloom, and point me to the skies: Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee:-- In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!
HENRY F. LYTE.
SONG FROM ”PIPPA Pa.s.sES.”
The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; G.o.d's in His heaven-- All's right with the world.
ROBERT BROWNING.
MAN AND NATURE.
A sad man on a summer day Did look upon the earth and say-- ”Purple cloud, the hilltop binding, Folded hills, the valleys wind in, Valleys, with fresh streams among you, Streams, with bosky trees along you, Trees, with many birds and blossoms, Birds, with music-trembling bosoms, Blossoms, dropping dews that wreathe you To your fellow flowers beneath you, Flowers, that constellate on earth, Earth, that shakest to the mirth Of the merry t.i.tan ocean, All his s.h.i.+ning hair in motion!
Why am I thus the only one Who can be dark beneath the sun?”
But when the summer day was past, He looked to heaven and smiled at last, Self-answered so-- ”Because, O cloud, Pressing with thy crumpled shroud Heavily on mountain top,-- Hills, that almost seem to drop, Stricken with a misty death, To the valleys underneath,-- Valleys, sighing with the torrent,-- Waters, streaked with branches horrent,-- Branchless trees, that shake your head Wildly o'er your blossoms spread Where the common flowers are found,-- Flowers, with foreheads to the ground,-- Ground, that shriekest while the sea With his iron smiteth thee-- I am, besides, the only one Who can be bright _without_ the sun.”
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
MORNING.
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow, Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft To give my Love good morrow.
Wings from the wind, to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good morrow; To give my Love good morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, Sing birds in every furrow, And from each hill, let music shrill, Give my fair Love good morrow: Blackbird and thrush, in every bush, Stare, linnet, and c.o.c.k sparrow!
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good morrow.
To give my Love good morrow Sing birds in every furrow.
THOMAS HEYWOOD.
THE LADY OF SHALOTT.
PART I.
On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and s.h.i.+ver Thro' the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a s.p.a.ce of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.