MY LIFE IS LIKE THE summer roSE. 293 Retribution. Οψέ θεῶν ἀλέουσι μύλοι, ἀλέουσι δὲ λεπτά. ("The mills of the gods grind late, but they grind fine.") GREEK POET. THOUC THE ABOVE PARAPHRASED. HOUGH the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small: Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds he all. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Careless seems the Great Avenger; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word: Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne; But that scaffold sways the future, and behind the dim un known Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above Hi, own! JAMES R. Lowell. My Life is like the Summer Rose. MY Y life is like the summer rose My life is like the autumn leaf My life is like the prints which feet All vestige of the human race, On that low shore loud moans the sea, RICHARD HENRY WIlde. When I do Count the Clock. HEN I do count the clock that tells the time WHE And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, ON HIS BLINDNESS. The Good Great Man. OW seldom, friend, a good great man inherits Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains! It seems a story from the world of spirits When any man obtains that which he merits, For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain ! Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ? 295 The good great man? Three treasures-love, and light, SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. On His Blindness. WHEN I consider how my light is spent WHE Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent My true account, lest he returning chide- I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent JOHN MILTON. CY To Cyriack Skinner. 'YRIACK, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In Liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, Content, though blind, had I no better guide. JOHN MILTON. Virtue. WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky! Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in the grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, LYCIDAS. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, But though the whole world turn to coal, GEORGE HERBERT. Y Lycidas. ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Begin, then, Sisters of the Sacred Well, So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favor my destined urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud; For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. 297 |