Part 4 (1/2)

Woman

She can be as wise as we And wiser when she wishes; She can knit with cunning wit, And dress the homely dishes, She can flourish staff or pen, And deal a wound that lingers; She can talk the talk of men, And touch with thrilling fingers.

--_George Meredith_

To Spring: On the Banks of the Cam

O Thou that from the green vales of the West Com'st in thy tender robes with bashful feet, And to the gathering clouds Liftest thy soft blue eye:

I woo thee. Spring!--Tho' thy dishevell'd hair In misty ringlets sweep thy snowy breast, And thy young lips deplore Stern Boreas' ruthless rage:

While morn is stee'd in dews, and the dank show'r Drops from the green boughs of the budding trees; And the thrush tunes his song Warbling with unripe throat:

Thro' the deep wood where spreads the sylvan oak I follow thee, and see thy hands unfold The love-sick primrose pale And moist-eyed violet:

While in the central grove, at thy soft voice, The Dryads start forth from their wintry cells, And from their oozy waves The Naiads lift their heads

In sedgy bonnets trimm'd with rushy leaves And water-blossoms from the forest stream, To pay their vows to thee, Their thrice adored queen!

The stripling shepherd wand'ring thro' the wood Startles the linnet from her downy nest, Or wreathes his crook with flowers, The sweetest of the fields.

From the grey branches of the ivied ash The stock-dove pours her vernal elegy, While further down the vale Echoes the cuckoo's note.

Beneath this trellis'd arbour's antique roof, When the wild laurel rustles in the breeze, By Cam's slow murmuring stream I waste the live-long day;

And bid thee. Spring, rule fair the infant year, Till my loved Maid in russet stole approach: O yield her to my arms, Her red lips breathing love!

So shall the sweet May drink thy falling tears, And on thy blue eyes pour a beam of joy; And float thy azure locks Upon the western wind.

So shall the nightingale rejoice thy woods, And Hesper early light his dewy star; And oft at eventide Beneath the rising moon.

May lovers' whispers soothe thy list'ning ear, And as they steal the soft impa.s.sion'd kiss, Confess thy genial reign, O love-inspiring Spring!

--_William Stanley Roscoe_

I pr'y thee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie; To find it were in vain, For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together?

O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our b.r.e.a.s.t.s you sever?