Other smiles may make you fickle,
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries;

Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies, when pressed and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odour to the lily,

Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,
Then bind love to last for ever!

Love's a fire that needs renewal
Of fresh beauty for its fuel ;

Love's wing moults when caged and captured,
Only free he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging,
Or the ringdove's neck from changing?
No! nor fettered love from dying,
In the knot there's no untying.

CLVI.

M

MARGARET AND DORA.

ARGARET 'S beauteous-Grecian arts
Ne'er drew form completer;

Yet why, in my heart of hearts,
Hold I Dora's sweeter?

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue
Pass all painting's reach,
Ringdoves' notes are discord to

The music of her speech.

Artists! Margaret's smile receive,

And on canvas show it;

But for perfect worship leave
Dora to her poet.

Q

CLVII.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT,

1781-1849.

PLAINT.

DARK, deep, and cold the current flows

Unto the sea where no wind blows,

Seeking the land which no one knows.

O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes
The mingled wail of friends and foes,
Borne to the land which no one knows.

Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes
With millions, from a world of woes,
Unto the land which no one knows?

Though myriads go with him who goes,
Alone he goes where no wind blows,
Unto the land which no one knows.

For all must go where no wind blows,
And none can go for him who goes ;
None, none return whence no one knows.

Yet why should he who shrieking goes
With millions, from a world of woes,
Reunion seek with it or those?

Alone with God, where no wind blows, And Death, his shadow-doomed, he goes: That God is there the shadow shows.

Oh shoreless Deep, where no wind blows! And, thou, oh Land, which no one knows! That God is All, his shadow shows.

CLVIII.

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK, 1785-1866.

THO

THE FRIAR'S SONG.

HOUGH I be now a gray, gray friar,
Yet I was once a hale young knight:
The cry of my dogs was the only choir
In which my spirit did take delight.

Little I recked of matin bell,

But drowned its toll with my clanging horn: And the only beads I loved to tell

Were the beads of dew on the spangled thorn.

An archer keen I was withal,

As ever did lean on greenwood tree; And could make the fleetest roebuck fall, A good three hundred yards from me.

Though changeful time, with hand severe,
Has made me now these joys forego,
Yet my heart bounds whene'er I hear
Yoicks! hark away! and tally ho