« السابقةمتابعة »
Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve
Listen where thou art sitting
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Listen, and save.
Listen, and appear to us,
By scaly Triton's winding shell,
Listen, and save.
EXTRACT FROM LYCIDAS. YEt once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude : And, with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year : Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due : For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright, Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering
wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten Alute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven
From the glad sound would not be absent long ; And old Damætas loved to hear our song.
But, О the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn : The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
BORN 1611-DIED 1643.
LESBIA ON HER SPARROW. Tell me not of joy! there's none Now my little sparrow's gone ;
He, just as you,
Would sigh and woo,
He would hang the wing a while,
Till at length he saw me smile, Lord ! how sullen he would be !
He would catch a crumb, and then
He from my lip
Would moisture sip,
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry philip when he'd done ; Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed ?
Oh! how eager would he fight,
No morn did pass,
But on my glass
What I did ; now ruffle all
His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too.
Whence will Cupid get his darts
A wound he may,
Not love, convey,
Oh ! let mournful turtles join
With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone.
BORN 1612-DIED 1680.
TAE witty and learned author of Hudibras was the son of a
small farmer in Worcestershire. Butler attended Cambridge for a short time. He afterwards appears to have