XXV
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
XXVI
Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear: Of his strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear.
XXVII
A PASTORAL
Damon was sitting in the grove With Phyllis, and protesting love; And she was listening; but no word Of all he loudly swore she heard.
How! was she deaf then? no, not she, Phyllis was quite the contrary.
Tapping his elbow, she said, 'Hush!
O what a darling of a thrush!
I think he never sang so well As now, below us, in the dell.'
XXVIII
THE LOVER
Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far, It seems that there are worlds between us; Shine here again, thou wandering star!
Earth's planet! and return with Venus.
At times thou broughtest me thy light When restless sleep had gone away; At other times more blessed night Stole over, and prolonged thy stay.
XXIX
THE POET WHO SLEEPS
One day, when I was young, I read About a poet, long since dead, Who fell asleep, as poets do In writing--and make others too.
But herein lies the story's gist, How a gay queen came up and kist The sleeper.
'Capital!' thought I.
'A like good fortune let me try.'
Many the things we poets feign.
I feign'd to sleep, but tried in vain.
I tost and turn'd from side to side, With open mouth and nostrils wide.
At last there came a pretty maid, And gazed; then to myself I said, 'Now for it!' She, instead of kiss, Cried, 'What a lazy lout is this!'
XXX
DANIEL DEFOE
Few will acknowledge what they owe To persecuted, brave Defoe.
Achilles, in Homeric song, May, or he may not, live so long As Crusoe; few their strength had tried Without so staunch and safe a guide.
What boy is there who never laid Under his pillow, half afraid, That precious volume, lest the morrow For unlearnt lessons might bring sorrow?
But nobler lessons he has taught Wide-awake scholars who fear'd naught: A Rodney and a Nelson may Without him not have won the day.
XXXI
IDLE WORDS
They say that every idle word Is numbered by the Omniscient Lord.
O Parliament! 'tis well that He Endureth for Eternity, And that a thousand Angels wait To write them at thy inner gate.
XXXII
TO THE RIVER AVON
Avon! why runnest thou away so fast?
Rest thee before that Chancel where repose The bones of him whose spirit moves the world.
I have beheld thy birthplace, I have seen Thy tiny ripples where they play amid The golden cups and ever-waving blades.
I have seen mighty rivers, I have seen Padus, recovered from his fiery wound, And Tiber, prouder than them all to bear Upon his tawny bosom men who crusht The world they trod on, heeding not the cries Of culprit kings and nations many-tongued.
What are to me these rivers, once adorn'd With crowns they would not wear but swept away?
Worthier art thou of worship, and I bend My knees upon thy bank, and call thy name, And hear, or think I hear, thy voice reply.