A Little Book of Old Time Verse Part 4

Woman

She can be as wise as we And wiser when she wishes; She can knit with cunning wit, And dress the homely dishes, She can flourish staff or pen, And deal a wound that lingers; She can talk the talk of men, And touch with thrilling fingers.

--_George Meredith_

To Spring: On the Banks of the Cam

O Thou that from the green vales of the West Com'st in thy tender robes with bashful feet, And to the gathering clouds Liftest thy soft blue eye:

I woo thee. Spring!--Tho' thy dishevell'd hair In misty ringlets sweep thy snowy breast, And thy young lips deplore Stern Boreas' ruthless rage:

While morn is stee'd in dews, and the dank show'r Drops from the green boughs of the budding trees; And the thrush tunes his song Warbling with unripe throat:

Thro' the deep wood where spreads the sylvan oak I follow thee, and see thy hands unfold The love-sick primrose pale And moist-eyed violet:

While in the central grove, at thy soft voice, The Dryads start forth from their wintry cells, And from their oozy waves The Naiads lift their heads

In sedgy bonnets trimm'd with rushy leaves And water-blossoms from the forest stream, To pay their vows to thee, Their thrice adored queen!

The stripling shepherd wand'ring thro' the wood Startles the linnet from her downy nest, Or wreathes his crook with flowers, The sweetest of the fields.

From the grey branches of the ivied ash The stock-dove pours her vernal elegy, While further down the vale Echoes the cuckoo's note.

Beneath this trellis'd arbour's antique roof, When the wild laurel rustles in the breeze, By Cam's slow murmuring stream I waste the live-long day;

And bid thee. Spring, rule fair the infant year, Till my loved Maid in russet stole approach: O yield her to my arms, Her red lips breathing love!

So shall the sweet May drink thy falling tears, And on thy blue eyes pour a beam of joy; And float thy azure locks Upon the western wind.

So shall the nightingale rejoice thy woods, And Hesper early light his dewy star; And oft at eventide Beneath the rising moon.

May lovers' whispers soothe thy list'ning ear, And as they steal the soft impa.s.sion'd kiss, Confess thy genial reign, O love-inspiring Spring!

--_William Stanley Roscoe_

I pr'y thee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine; For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie; To find it were in vain, For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together?

O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our b.r.e.a.s.t.s you sever?

But love is such a mystery I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell love, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart As much as she hath mine.

--_Sir John Suckling_

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage, If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free,-- Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

--_Richard Lovelace_

Appelles' Song

Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses,--Cupid paid; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves, and teams of sparrows: Loses them, too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how); With these the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin: All these did my Campaspe win.

At last he set her both his eyes; She won, and Cupid blind did rise; O Love, has she done this to thee?

What shall, alas! become of me?

--_John Lyly_

To Althea, from Prison

When love, with unconfined wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye-- The birds that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty.

--_Richard Lovelace_

On the Life of Man

Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like the wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood; Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in and paid tonight The wind blows out, the bubble dies, The spring entombed in autumn lies, The dew's dried up, the star is shot, The flight is past, and man forgot.

--_Henry King_

Of A' the Airts the Wind Can Blaw

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.

--_Robert Burns_

O Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roaming?