Lady Anna was buried in the east, There blew a cold north-easterly wind Which never there was seen before, And it never will again, again, And it never will again. Gammer Gurton. What's in a Name. I ASKED my fair, one happy day, What I should call her in my lay, By what sweet name, from Rome or Greece; Lalage, Neæra, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa or Lucrece? 'Ah!' replied my gentle fair, Beloved, what are names but air? Choose thou whatever suits the line: Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, Call me Lalage, or Doris, Only, only, call me Thine.' Coleridge. Ergo oriens Phoebus tibi calfacit, Anna, sepulcrum; Ad decedentem sternitur ille Diem: Sed leve liliolum, nascens Corydonis ab urna, Venit ab hiberno furor illacrymabilis Euro, H. D. Πόλλων ὀνομάτων μόρφη μία. QUONAM nomine vellet illa, nostris 'Ah! quid me rogites?' reponit illa: Nil sunt nomina sola præter auram. Si qua vox melior sonet canenti, F. W. The Convent. 'Now, men of death, work forth your will, For I can suffer, and be still; And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death who comes at last.' Fixed was her look, and stern her air; Her figure seemed to rise more high; Raising his sightless balls to heaven:- Sinful brother, part in peace!' י! Scott. ΤΟ ΜΟΝΑΣΤΗΡΙΟΝ. ΝΥΝ δ', οἷς προσήκει, δρᾶτέ μ' οἷα δραστέα κόμη δ ̓ ἀπ ̓ ὤμων ᾄσσεται· κρατὸς δ ̓ ἄπο απ ἔστησεν ὀφρύων βοστρύχους ἐπισκίους δέμας δὲ μεῖζον ᾔρεθ ̓· ὡς δὲ μάντεως ἔῤῥηξεν αὐδὴν ἠγριωμένη κακοῖς. κύκλος δ' ἐθάμβει ξύνεδρος, ἐμπλήκτοις κόραις ἐλαφρὸν εἰσορῶντες ἔνθεον δέμας· τυφῶ δὲ πᾶς τις προσδοκῶν ἀλάστορα, ἤλλαξε, προστροπαῖος ἐκ κριτοῦ, δέος, οὐ χεῖρα κινῶν, οὐ στόμ ̓· ἔσθ ̓ ὑπ ̓ αἰθέρα ἐς τοῦτ ̓, ἀδελφὴ, σοὶ μὲν ωρίσθω πάθη C. J. V. The Palace of Ice. No forest fell When thou would'st build; no quarry sent its stores To enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods, And make thy marble of the glassy wave. In such a palace Aristæus found Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale Of his lost bees to her maternal ear: In such a palace poetry might place The armoury of winter, where his troops, Silently as a dream the fabric rose, No sound of hammer or of saw was there; Were soon conjoined, nor other cement asked Than water interfused to make them one. Lamps gracefully disposed and of all hues Illumined every side; a watery light Gleamed through the clear transparency, that seemed Another moon new-risen, or meteor fallen From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. Cowper. |