Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide To the dry grass and the drier grain In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; The clover-scented gale, And the vapours that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. H. W. Longfello:v XIII EPITAPH ON A HARE Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Though duly from my hand he took He did it with a jealous look, His diet was of wheaten bread, On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, A Turkey carpet was his lawn, His frisking was at evening hours, But most before approaching showers, Eight years and five round-rolling moons I kept him for his humours' sake, My heart of thoughts that made it ache, But now, beneath this walnut shade, He, still more aged, feels the shocks W. Cowper XIV ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) An angel writing in a book of gold :— 'What writest thou?'-The vision raised its head, The next night The angel wrote and vanished. Leigh Hunt XV LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, The sedge is wither'd from the lake, Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; Fast withereth too. I met a Lady in the meads, I set her on my pacing steed, I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. She found me roots of relish sweet, She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes, So kissed to sleep. And there we slumber'd on the moss, I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cried 'La belle Dame sans mercy Hath thee in thrall!' |