GOODBYE. OODBYE, proud world, I'm going home, Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine; Long through thy weary crowds I roam; A river-ark on the ocean brine, Long I've toss'd like the driven foam; But now, proud world, I'm going home. Goodbye to Flattery's fawning face, To crowded halls, to court, and street, I'm going to my own hearth-stone O when I am safe in my sylvan home, I I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, EMERSON. Y THE CAIQUE. ONDER to the kiosk, beside the creek, Thou brawny oarsman with the sun-burnt cheek, Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak! Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, Swift bending to your oars. Beneath the melancholy sycamores Hark! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul pours. Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight, The stars themselves more bright, As 'mid the waving branches out of sight The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night. Under the boughs I sat and listen'd still, "How comes," I said, " such music to his bill? Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill." "Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose, But look'd upon the Rose; And in the garden where the loved-one grows "O bird of song, there's one in this caique The Rose would also seek, So he might learn like you to love and speak." "The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek." W. M. THACKERAY. Μ' ΤΟ "USIC, when soft voices die, Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, SHELLEY. THERANIA. UNKNOWN Belov'd One! to the mellow season Branches in the lawn make drooping bow'rs; Vase and plot burn scarlet, gold, and azure; Honeysuckles wind the tall grey turret, Come thou, come thou to my lonely thought, Now at evening twilight, dusky dew down-wavers, Soft stars crown the grove-encircled hill ; Breathe the new-mown meadows, broad and misty; Through the heavy grass the rail is talking; Trace with me the wandering avenue, In the mystic realm, and in the time of visions, I thy lover have no need to woo; There I hold thy hand in mine, thou dearest, Then my tears are love, and thine are love, Is thy voice a wavelet on the listening darkness? Art thou Love indeed, or art thou Death, WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. THE BLOSSOM. ERRY, merry Sparrow ! Με Under leaves so green A happy Blossom EING your slave, what should I do but tend I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour, (Though you do anything) he thinks no ill. SHAKESPEARE. |