English

At Lammastide and Hallowe'en,
By forest glade and haunted green,
Gleaming in the silver sheen,
What does all the moaning mean?
All the moaning and the sighing,
Little voices calling, crying,
Bitterly, oh! bitterly?
" Where is she? where is she?
Where is she, the Fairy Queen?"

" She is gone beyond our ken,
Gone among the world of men; —
Busy, talking, thinking men:
Where no fairy foot has been,
Where they mock the fairy powers:
Where the smoky heaven lowers:
Wall and roof for fairy bowers:

There 's a tarn beneath the fell
Ringed with rock and asphodel.
Dreaming in the purple deeps,
There the fairy mother sleeps.

Once she was a lady bright;
Once she loved a plumed knight;
Once she stood a fairy bride
By a mortal lover's side.

Yesterday in some one's eyes
I saw the mountain and the skies
And the little ripples glancing,
And the merry sunbeams dancing,
And deep, oh deep, so deep below —
Read the tale of long ago.

God lit a star in heaven
To make the darkness bright,
God lit a star in heaven:
He shone, and there was light.
He shone, but he was lonely
And grieved and sorrowed sore:
And the Lord of Heaven had pity,
And lit him a million more.

Each star had a million brothers
To keep him company;
Each star had a million brothers,
And each as bright as he.
And shining, each to other,
About God's throne they move,
And sing His praise together,
Together sing His praises —
Who gave them friends to love.

Come , join hands and swear
By earth and sea and air,
As brothers, side by side;
Troth to the sacred band,
Troth to the sacred land
Their love has sanctified —
Love, inborn, inbred,
Giving, taking and giving —
The love of the dead to the living,
The love of the living to the dead.

Did not you once, Lucinda, vow
You would have none but me? Lu:
Aye, but my mother tells me now
I must love wealth, not thee. Sh:
'Tis not my fault my sheep are lean,
Or that they are so few. Lu:
Nor mine. I cannot love so mean,
So poor a thing as you. Sh:
Cruel, thy love is in thy power,
Fortune is not in mine. Lu:
But shepherd, think how great my dower
Is in respect of thine. Sh:

The spheres are dull and do not make
Such music as mine ears will take.
The slighted birds may cease to sing,
Their chirpings do not grace the Spring:
The Nightingale is sad in vain,
I care not to hear her complain:
While I have ears and you a tongue,
I shall think all things else go wrong.

The poets feign'd that Orpheus could
Make stones to follow where he would;
They feign'd indeed, but (had they known
Your voice) a truth they might have shown.
All instruments most sadly go

Run to Love's lottery! Run, maids, and rejoice:
When, drawing your chance, you meet your own choice;
And boast that your luck you help with design,
By praying cross-legged to Old Bishop Valentine.
Hark, hark! a prize is drawn, and trumpets sound!
Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra!
Tan, ta, ra, ra, ra!

Hark, maids! more lots are drawn! prizes abound.
Dub! dub a, dub a, dub! the drum now beats!

The Sunne that had himselfe a Courtier beene,
And for his beautie lou'd of Ladies faire,
Spread forth his yellow beames vpon the greene,
And with attentive eye, and Courtly care,
Flourisht his wandring torch, till he had seene
This troup arriue the place where now they are:
Which done, he hies him thence, and takes his rest
Behinde the furthest Mountaines of the West.

Blinde drouzie night, all clad in misty ray,
Began to ride along the welkins round,
Hangs out his gazing Lanthornes by the way,

ELEGIE II.

When laniuere in's one and thirtith age
Had late embrac'd the wintring Feuerill,
And March, departed with his windy rage,
Presented time with honny'd April,And-Shepheards to their lasses layd to gage
The yellow Cowslip and the Daffadill;
When flocks gan to be lusty, lambes to skip,
That lov'd the well yscape of Winters nip:

The dayes were wealthie in a greater store,Of temp'rate minutes, and of calmer weather;
The Welkin blast was milder then before,

ELEGIE II.

A CICUILL Youth, whose life was led in Court,
— In Court, the place of all Ciuilitie; —
Who lou'd no riot, tho delighted sport,
Such sport as with such place might well agree
To giue him credite, by a true report:
The only glory of his time was hee:
For (mote I sweare,) the gentry of his kind,
Was fairely match'd with gentlenes of mind.

His personage, a thing for Gods to tell,
Whose wits can reach, beyond the reach of Muse;
Diuine proportion in his limmes did dwell,