POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. No princely pompe nor welthie store, No wylie wit to salve a sore, No shape to winne a lover's eye, To none of these I yeeld as thrall; For why, my mind despiseth all. Some have too much, yet still they crave; I little have, yet seek no more. They are but poore, though much they have, And I am rich with little store. They poor, I rich; they beg, I give ; They lacke, I lend; they pine, I live. I laugh not at another's losse, I grudge not at another's gaine; No worldly wave my mind can tosse ; I brooke that is another's bane. I feare no foe, nor fawne on friend; I joy not in no earthly blisse; I weigh not Cresus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is; I feare not fortune's fatal law; My mind is such as may not move For beautie bright, or force of love. I wish but what I have at will; I wander not to seeke for more; I like the plaine, I clime no hill ; I kisse not where I wish to kill ; I feigne not love where most I hate ; I breake no sleepe to winne my will; I wayte not at the mightie's gate. The court ne cart I like ne loath, — Extreames are counted worst of all; The golden meane betwixt them both Doth surest sit, and feares no fall; THOUGHT. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, We are spirits clad in veils ; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led Which they never drew from earth, We, like parted drops of rain, CHRISTOPHER Pearse Cranch. BEAUTY. 'T is much immortal beauty to admire, LORD EDWARD THURLOW. Made the more mindful that the sweet days die, Remember me a little then, I pray, The idle singer of an empty day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear; Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Folk say, a wizard to a Northern king So with this Earthly Paradise it is THE POET'S REWARD. FROM "SNOW-BOUND." THANKS untraced to lips unknown Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. IMAGINATION. FROM "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM." THESEUS. More strange than true: I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay, Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing Not the poor singer of the empty day. A local habitation and a name. SHAKESPEARE. WILLIAM MORRIS. CONTENTMENT. THE INNER VISION. MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes If Thought and Love desert us, from that day The mind's internal Heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. I WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile; I seek not state, I reck not style; I quake not at the thunder's crack; I tremble not at news of war; I swound not at the news of wrack; I shrink not at a blazing star; I fear not loss, I hope not gain, I envy none, I none disdain. I see ambition never pleased; I see some Tantals starved in store; For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, If country loves such sweet desires do gain, His flocks are folded; he comes home at night, And merrier too; If country loves such sweet desires do gain, He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat For kings have often tremors when they sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup: Ah then, ah then, If country loves such sweet desires do gain, Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, If country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain? |