Old Earth is a pleasure to see In sunshiny cloak of red and green; The furrow lies fresh; this Year will be As Years that are past have been. Fall gently, &c. Old Mother, receive this corn, The son of Six Thousand golden sires : All these on thy kindly breast were born; One more thy poor child requires. Fall gently, &c. Now steady and sure again, Thus And measure of stroke and step we keep ; Fall gently and still, good corn, T. CARLYLE. WE SONG. HY so pale and wan, fond lover? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale ? Why so dull and mute, young sinner, Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prithee, why so mute? Quit, quit for shame; this will not move, This cannot take her: If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her. The devil take her! SIR JOHN SUCKLING. I I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, I remember, I remember, I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool This fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. HOOD. H SONNET. [THE IDLE VOYAGER.] ́OW long I sail'd, and never took a thought To what port I was bound! Secure as sleep, I dwelt upon the bosom of the deep And perilous sea. And though my ship was fraught HARTLEY COLERIDGE. THE LOVER OF MUSIC TO HIS PIANO-FORTE. Off friend, whom glad or grave we seek, Heav'n-holding shrine! I ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak, And peace is mine. No fairy casket, full of bliss, Love only, waken'd with a kiss, To thee, when our full hearts o'erflow In griefs or joys, Unspeakable emotions owe A fitting voice: Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest, And Memory dear, And Sorrow, with his tighten'd breast, Oh, since few joys of human mould Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold No change, no sullenness, no cheat, In thee we find; Thy saddest voice is ever sweet,— Thine answer, kind. LEIGH HUNT. Down along the rocky shore Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights. |