Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head! Then am I ready, like a palmer fit, To tread those blest paths which before I writ. Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, 1603? 58 A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER INTO the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him; The thorn-tree had a mind to Him When into the woods He came. Out of the woods my Master went, Out of woods my Master came, 1884. 1633. A Hymn When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last: 'T was on a tree they slew Him-last, When out of the woods He came. 16 Sidney Lanier. A HYMN DROP, drop, slow tears, And bathe those beauteous feet, The news and Prince of Peace: His mercy to entreat; To cry for vengeance Sin doth never cease: In your deep floods Drown all my faults and fears; See sin, but through my tears. Phineas Fletcher. QUA CURSUM VENTUS As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried; 4 When fell the night, up sprung the breeze, E'en so-but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel, 8 Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 12 At dead of night their sails were filled, To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, guides To that, and your own selves, be true. But O blithe breeze; and O great seas, Together lead them home at last. One port, methought, alike they sought, 1849. Arthur Hugh Clough. 20 24 28 MY LADY'S GRAVE THE linnet in the rocky dells, The wild deer browse above her breast; I ween that when the grave's dark wall 8 They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again. They thought the tide of grief would flow But where is all their anguish now, Well, let them fight for honour's breath, The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too. 12 16 20 And if their eyes should watch and weep She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer streams There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dream. a. 1848. Emily Brontë. "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK' BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead 8 12 16 1842. Lord Tennyson. |