English

Apples here in my basket,
You are symbols here in my basket:
Ancient a thousand years, now red again,
Terrible in my hands.
Fullness of women, ripe breasts of the earth,
Sting of denial, nurturing plenty,
Fragrance of love—
Treasure to be won more than gold you were,
O guarded apples in fearful gardens;
Desire far-off, far, far knowledge,
Ineffable knowledge,
Doomed, sweet, divinely snatched!

In this faint age, when British growth is missing ,
And dapper beaux want stilts to climb to kissing ;
Ill dares an author hope your pardon granted,
Who gives a man, more woman , than he wanted .
But I, to comfort him, have been declaring,
You can forgive all sins, you take your share in.
Let me look round—aye—'tis my firm persuasion ,
Your calls , that way, outgo your best occasion .

 Two wives! what then—suppose 'em two and twenty ,
Spendthrifts shou'd nev. frown , on other's plenty .

Poor, once fam'd Lee , when he compos'd this Play,
Brainsick, and touch'd , on Bedlam's borders lay,
And 'twas no wonder — for, in sober sadness ,
Church Massacres wou'd scare even saints to madness.

O, Ladies! heaven forbid such serious frights!
Such strange dead doings — on your wedding nights!
Kill us, with kindness , let 'em — if they dare:
But downright dying — ah! — what bride could bear?

These are thy trophies, France! — no Briton dares,
With tame, cold murder , stain the cross he bears.

Why envi'st thou thy neighbour, can'st thou tel?
Is 't 'cause in wealth or worth he doth excel?
That will not make thee richer then thou art,
Nor him the poorer, but 'twill vex thy heart;
That will not make thee better nor him worse,
But blessing bring on him, on thee a curse.
Or why malignest thou thine enemy?
Is't 'cause he hath done thee some injury?
That will not mend the matter, but incense
Him to a second and more high offence,
Adding of wrong to wrong: O then be wise
And do him all the good thou can'st devise

Brother soldiers why cast down?
Never, boys, be melancholy:
You say our lives are not our own,
But therefore should we not be jolly?
This poor tenement, at best,
Depends on fickle chance: mean while,
Drink, laugh, and sing; and, for the rest,
We'll boldly brave each rude campaign;
Secure, if we return again,
Our pretty landlady shall smile.

Look how the steel forceth with several knocks
Fire from the flint into the tinder box:
So do you smite each other, till you force
Gold from your own into the lawyer's purse.
O how like foes they brawle on either side
And yet like friends your money they divide,
Leaving you bare as an anatomy:
All that you get you may put in your eye,
And never see the worse; then take from me
This counsel freely, and without a fee;
Agree between yourselves, and make an end:
Do you to him, he to you condescend.

A boar who had enjoy'd a happy reign
For many a year, and fed on many a man,
Call'd to account, soft'ning his savage eyes,
Thus, suppliant, pleads his cause before he dies.
" For what am I condemn'd? My crime's no more
" To eat a man than yours to eat a Boar.
" We seek not you, but take what chance provides,
" Nature and mere necessity our guides.
" You murder us in sport, the dish us up
" For drunken seasts, a relish for the cup.
" We lengthen not our meals; but you must feast,

My Lord, and please you, he and I,
Morn, noon, and night, in every weather,
From little children, not this high,
In the same cottage liv'd together:

Our parents left me to his care,
Saying, let no one put upon her:
" No, that I won't," says he, " I swear;"
And he ne'er lies, and like your honour.

II.

As I was saying, we grew up,

I thought I could not go astray,
So perfectly I knew the way;
Yet in a mist I miss'd it, and
Err'd now on this, now on that hand,
And till the fog was by the sun
Dispell'd, I in a maze did run
And ride as if 'twere fairie ground,
Or that the Puck had led me round;
So whiles I want a heavenly light
The day's to me as dark as night,
Which way I go I cannot tell,
Whether it be towards heaven or hell;
But this I know that there is odds,
I tread the divel's track, not God's;
For God's way strait and narrow is,

A PARISIAN REMINISCENCE .

From the doors of the Trois Freres Provençaux ,
Rich realm, where the code is the Carte ,
And the cooks are the monarchs supreme,
And the dishes the triumphs of art,
I sauntered, digestively slow,
Through the lines of the dazzling Arcade,
And forth to the Rue de Valois ,
And the gloom of its parvenu shade;
Thence on, in the dusk of the night,