English

The long black ledges are white with gulls,
As if the breakers had left their foam;
With the dying daylight the wild wind lulls,
And the scattered fishing-boats steer for home.

On the crag I sit, with the east before.
The sun behind me is low in the sky;
Warm is its touch on the rocky shore;
Sad the vast ocean spaces lie.

The cricket is hoarse in the faded grass;
The low bush rustles so thin and sere;
Swift overhead the small birds pass.
With cries that are lonely and sweet and clear.

S IR CHARLES MODISH.

My dear! this morning we will take a ride;
And call on Lord Rupee, and Lady Pride.

L ADY MODISH.

With all my heart; and bring them home to dine:
I like the scheme, the weather is so fine.
Sir Charles! now read the news: pray who is dead?
And see if Lady Jane is brought to bed.

S IR CHARLES.

The last new Tragedy was well receiv'd;
And Harrison I see is clear repriev'd;
Good Captain Bluster has obtain'd a Flag;
I hope he will promote Lieutenant Brag!

Like a lonely bark
In the stream I be,
My curly-haired lad
Was the mate for me!
To the death I will widowed be!
Oh! gentle mother!
Why urge another?

Like a drifting bark,
I helpless move,
My curly-haired lad
Was my only love!
To the death I will faithful prove!
Oh! nature's mother!
Why urge another?

I gaze and weep, mother of my boy,
I say alas and woe is me wretched
What will become of wretched me,
I have seen my golden son dead!

They seized that fragrant rose
Of my breast, and my soul fainted away,
They let my beautiful golden dove
Fly away, and my heart was wounded.

That falcon death seized
My dear and sweet-voiced turtle-dove and wounded me.
They took my sweet-toned little lark,
And flew away through the skies!

Before my eyes they sent the hail
On my flowering green pomegranate,

(Ballade)

Deep in the green woods yesterday
I, wandering, heard the sweet birds sing:
The nightingale, clear-voiced alway,
And yet more clear the lark on wing.
Returning to my shepherding,
A song came through the trees to me
From maids their fair heads garlanding:
It was the prettiest of the three.

Passing beneath the trees I found
Elise and Marion and Margot
Deep-shadowed where the leaves abound
Singing beneath a hawthorn's snow.
I named them each, and, bowing low,

The summer day was spoiled with fitful storm;
At night the wind died, and the soft rain dropped
With lulling murmur, and the air was warm,
And all the tumult and the trouble stopped.

We sat within the bright and quiet room,
Glowing with light and flowers and friendliness;
And faces in the radiance seemed to bloom,
Touched into beauty as by a caress.

And one struck music from the ivory keys, —
Beethoven's music; and the awful chords
Upbore us like the waves of mighty seas

Adam, sitting at the gate of Paradise,
Wept and said sadly;
Oh Seraphim, oh Cherubim,
Who enter Paradise!

I was king in Eden,
Like to a powerful king,
For the only command
Of that fruit of that immortal tree.

On account of Eve my consort,
Who was deceived by the cunning of the serpent,
They took my beautiful ornaments,
And without pity they stripped me.

This only time that I failed
By the words of my wife I was deceived.
When I saw her so shameless
Despoiled of her glory as the devil,

Why slightest thou what I approve?
Thou art no Peere to try my Love.
Nor canst discerne where her forme lyes,
Unlesse thou sawst her with my Eyes.
Say shee were foule, and blacker than
The Night, or Sun-burnt African,
If lik't by mee, tis I alone
Can make a beauty where was none.
For rated in my Phant'sy, shee
Is so, as shee appeares to mee.
But 'tis not feature or a face
That does my free Election grace,
Nor is my liking only lead
By a well-tempred White and Red:
Could I enamour'd grow on those,

Say, can that word that's wrote or spoke
Some tender mark to hit,
Deserve the pleasing term of joke,
Or semblance bear of Wit?

When Vice or Folly we detect,
We licence then may crave,
To search the wound, the kind effect,
The patient's life to save.

But when some failing we descry,
Of no offensive hue,
We should not gaze with Critics eye,
Or bring it forth to view.

Each moral virtue of the mind,
Each form of outward grace,
Depriv'd of excellence we find,
If we malignly trace.

Tis not the Till'd, Poor, Lifeless Earth
Which gives me all my Store.
No: Tis my GOD! From Him comes forth
All that has fill'd my Floor.

For what I've gather'd from the Field
Thee , Oh! my GOD I bless.
But, Oh! that I Fruits too may yield
To Him who me does dress !

My Soul , with Gladness fill'd, and Food;
Returns, what shall be made?
In this Abundance serve thy GOD,
In HIM for ever glad .

Now in Obedience all my Days
Hard at my Work I'll keep;
Him I'l take pains to please and praise;