English

Hark! from yon covert, where those tow'ring oaks
Above the humble copse aspiring rise,
What glorious triumphs burst in ev'ry gale
Upon our ravished ears! The hunters shout,
The clanging horns swell their sweet-winding notes,
The pack wide-op'ning load the trembling air
With various melody; from tree to tree
The propagated cry redoubling bounds,
And wingèd zephyrs waft the floating joy
Through all the regions near. Afflictive birch
No more the schoolboy dreads, his prison broke,
Scamp'ring he flies, nor heeds his master's call.

THE crested line of waves upheaving slow,
Like white-plumed squadrons in compact array,
Moving to launch their thunder on the foe,
Each gathering in, with hushed yet ardent will,
Its strength of purpose ere the war-cloud burst.—
And with accumulate energy press on
Their foamy ridges, to dissolve at last,
Like passion's billows, into gushing tears,
Or, with an inarticulate moan, expire.

Wave after wave successively rolls on
And dies along the shore, until more loud
One billow with concentrate force is heard

Prefer the cherry when the fruit hangs thick
and hot for plunder of a blackbird's beak,
the bird flashing and crying in the leaves.

Shadow and sun and blackbird in the leaves
make summer's ripeness, the blood's sweet, slow heat,
when there is this hot, red-fleshed fruit to eat.

I will not ask you to believe sweetness
of fruit beyond all possible sweetness
when the sugary juice stains lips and teeth.

I will not ask you to believe surfeit
is possible. The sun burns at your shut

When hordes with lance and sabre
Spread desolation wide,
And bloody murder revels
Along the crimson tide.

When hungry famine follows
The devastating flame,
And tender children vainly call
A slaughtered father's name

When homes are burned and plundered,
And widowed women weep,
Distorted lie the mangled dead
In their eternal sleep.

Then desolated Freedom mourns
Her immolated sons;
And lamentations mingle with
The echoes of the guns.

Suffered for love such woe Have I, that ask not;
Drunk parting's poison so Have I, that ask not.

Travelled have I the world And now a charmer
Chosen, so sweet of show Have I, that ask not.

After the dust of that Her door for longing,
Eyes on such wise aflow Have I, that ask not.

With this mine ear, from out Her mouth, yest'reven,
Such sweet words hearkened, lo! Have I, that ask not.

At me why bite the lip, As saying, “Speak not?”
A ruby bitten, know, Have I, that ask not.

It sounded in castle and palace,
It sounded in cottage and shed,
It sped over mountains and valleys,
And withered the earth as it sped;
Like a blast in its fell consummation
Of all that we holy should hold,
Thrilled, thrilled thro' the nerves of the nation
A cry for the reign of King Gold.

Up started the chiefs of the city,
And sending it back with a ring,
To the air of a popular ditty,
Erected a throne to the king:
'Twas based upon fiendish persuasions,
Cemented by crimes manifold:

Take heed of loving mee,
At least remember, I forbade it thee;
Not that I shall repaire my unthrifty wast
Of Breath and Blood, upon thy sighes, and teares,
By being to thee then what to me thou wast;
But, so great Joy, our life at once outweares,
Then, least thy love, by my death, frustrate bee,
If thou love mee, take heed of loving mee.

Take heed of hating mee,
Or too much triumph in the Victorie.
Not that I shall be mine owne officer,
And hate with hate againe retaliate;
But thou wilt lose the stile of conquerour,

What could Luxurious Woman wish for more
To fix her Joys, or to extend her Power?
Their every Wish was in this Mary seen,
Gay, Witty, Youthful, Beauteous and a Queen!
Vain useless Blessings with ill Conduct joyn'd!
Light as the Air, and Fleeting as the Wind.
What ever Poets write, or Lovers vow;
Beauty, what poor Omnipotence hast thou!
Queen Bess had Wisdom, Councel, Power, and Laws;
How few espous'd a Wretched Beauty's Cause!
Learn hence, ye Fair, more solid charms to prize,
Contemn the Idle Flatterers of your Eyes.

Dear is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,

The wayfarer
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said,
"I see that none has passed here
In a long time."
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
"Well," he mumbled at last,
"Doubtless there are other roads."