What may not then our isle presume, While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year? As Cæsar, he, ere long, to Gaul; To Italy an Hannibal; And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find Happy, if in the tufted brake But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on; And, for the last effect, Besides the force it has to fright SONNET. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. John Milton. CROMWELL, Our chief of men, who through a cloud Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains THE TWA CORBIES. As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies1 making a mane; "In behint yon auld fail2 dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; 1 Corbies, crows. 2 Fail, turf. And naebody kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "His hound is to the hunting gane, So we may mak our dinner sweet. "Ye'll sit on his white hause3-bane, 4 We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. "Many a one for him makes mane, HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. Thomas Carew. He that loves a rosy cheek, Or from star-like eyes doth seek But a smooth and steadfast mind, 8 hause, neck. Hearts, with equal love combined: Where these are not, I despise CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. Robert Herrick. GET up, get up, for shame! the blooming Morn The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since: yet you not drest, Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns; 'tis sin, When as a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen For jewels for your gown or hair; Gems in abundance upon you; Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying; Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. . THE bird is little more than a drift of the air brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air in its flying, like a blown flame: it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it, outraces it; is the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself, ruling itself. |