With a tiger-leap half-way Now she meets the coming prey, Has it in her power again : Now she works with three or four, Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure! W. Wordsworth IX THE FERRYMAN, VENUS, AND CUPID As I a fare had lately past, And thought that side to ply, Which as I was about to bring, And came to view my fraught, Thought I, what more than heavenly thing Hath fortune hither brought? She, seeing mine eyes still on her were, Soon, smilingly, quoth she, Sirrah, look to your rudder there, Why look'st thou thus at me? And nimbly stepp'd into my boat Naked and blind, yet did I note And two wings to his shoulders fixt, With far more various colours mixt Sure this is some devised toy, Or it transform'd hath been, For such a thing, half bird, half boy, I think was never seen. And in my boat I turn'd about, And wistly view'd the lad, And clearly I saw his eyes were out, Though bow and shafts he had. How lik'st thou him? quoth she. Why, well, quoth I, the better should, Had he but eyes to see. How say'st thou, honest friend, quoth she, Wilt thou a 'prentice take? I think, in time, though blind he be, To guide my passage-boat, quoth I, He hath been bred too wantonly Why, help him to a master, then, Quoth I, when you your best have done, Than to a harper bind your son, Quoth I, I pray you let me know, Or by some sickness, hurt, or blow, Nay, sure, quoth she, he thus was born. 'Tis strange, born blind! quoth I; I fear you put this as a scorn On my simplicity. Quoth she, thus blind I did him bear. Quoth I, if't be no lie, Then he's the first blind man, I'll swear, E'er practis'd archery. A man! quoth she, nay, there you miss, 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, 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 Beside a human door! 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; |