Lulla, lulla, lullaby: lulla, lulla, lullaby:
Never harm, nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh!

So good-night, with lullaby.

SHAKESPEARE.

UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

B

EFORE my face the picture hangs
That dailie should put me in minde
Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to finde:
But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face

Most uglie, grislie, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose have sometime been;
I see the bones across that lie ;
Yet little think, that I must die.

I read the label underneathe,

That telleth me whereto I must: I see the sentence eke that saithe "Remember, man, that thou art duste;" But yet, alas, but seldom I

Do think indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head

An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell

That I, ere morning, may be dead,
Though now I feel myself full well :

But yet, alas, for all this, I

Have little minde that I must die!

The gowne which I do use to weare,
The knife, wherewith I cut my meate,
And eke that old and ancient chair
Which is my only usual seate,

All these do tell me I must die;
And yet my life amende not I!

My ancestors are turn'd to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away ;-
And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no, I know that I must die;
And yet my life amende not I!

Not Solomon, for all his wit,

Nor Samson, though he were so strong,
No king, nor ever person yet,

Could 'scape, but Death laid him along!
Wherefore I know that I must die;
And yet my life amende not I!

Though all the east did quake to hear
Of Alexander's dreadful name,
And all the west did likewise fear
The sound of Julius Cæsar's fame,
Yet both by death in duste now lie;
Who then can 'scape, but he must die?

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte,
If rich and poor his beck obey,

If strong, if wise, if all do smarte,
Then I to 'scape shall have no way.
O grant me grace, O God, that I
My life may mende, sith I must die!
ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

I

THE ANGEL.

DREAM'D a dream, what can it mean?
And that I was a maiden queen,

Guarded by an Angel mild:
Witless woe, was ne'er beguiled!

And I wept both night and day,
And he wiped my tears away;
And I wept both day and night,
And hid from him my heart's delight.

So he took his wings and fled;
Then the morn blush'd rosy red;

I dried my tears, and arm'd my fears
With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again;
I was arm'd, he came in vain ;
For the time of youth was fled,

And grey hairs were on my head.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

AN IRISH BALLAD.

OH, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the

If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the rest.

Be what it may the time of day, the place be where

it will,

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock.

Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a

show'r,

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,

Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so

fine;

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gather'd in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before,

No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;

But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she

was gay!

She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,

The music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moan'd his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

But bless'd himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you

sung,

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,

And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!

O might we live together in a cottage mean and

small;

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never

wish it less.

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low;

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you

may go !

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.