It is a mystery to me, An archer, and yet blind! Quoth I again, how can it be, The gods, quoth she, whose will it was Gave him this gift, though at his game That he should have so certain aim, As not to miss his mark. By this time we were come ashore, But not a word she utter'd more, Then told me who they were. M. Drayton X SONG Under the greenwood tree, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall we see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live in the sun, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. W. Shakespeare XI LUCY GRAY Or Solitude Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; -The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen, 'To-night will be a stormy night You to the town must go ; And take a lantern, child, to light 'That, Father, will I gladly do! The minster-clock has just struck two, At this the Father raised his hook, He plied his work ;—and Lucy took Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, The storm came on before its time: And many a hill did Lucy climb; The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept, and, turning homeward, cried, 'In heaven we all shall meet !' t -When in the snow the mother spied Then downward from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed; They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; They followed from the snowy bank And further there were none ! -Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. W. Wordsworth XII RAIN IN SUMMER How beautiful is the rain! In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs ! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window-pane It pours and pours ; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain! The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighbouring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool And turbulent ocean. In the country on every side, |