A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE. "De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier." THE Rose in the garden slipped her bud, The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, But the breeze of the morning blew, and found That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground; And he came at noon, that Gardener old, And he raked them gently under the mould. And I wove the thing to a random rhyme: AUSTIN DOBSON. I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous puises, All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses; All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing. Cowards and laggards fall back; but alert to the saddle, The road is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses; Thought's self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb, A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle, I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing. We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm-wind; LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. And oft it falls (aye me, the more to rue!) Yet nathèmore is that faire beauty's blame, Nothing so good, but that through guilty shame THOUGHT. EDWARD SPENSER. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught. We are spirits clad in veils ; Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here. What is social company 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, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one. CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. FROM "FAREWELL TO FOLLIE," 1617. SWEET are the thoughts that savor of content ; The quiet mind is richer than a crown; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent, The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown: Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. The homely house that harbors quiet rest, IN PRISON. ROBERT GREENE. BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; That innocence is tempest proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. Who ne'er to flatter will descend, Nor bend the knee to power, A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see ; And that my friendship prove as strong For him as his for me. I want the seals of power and place, Charged by the People's unbought grace I want the voice of honest praise And to be thought in future days In choral union to the skies Their blessings on my name. These are the Wants of mortal Man, My last great Want - absorbing all - JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. |