Golden Numbers Part 27

Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss?

'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.

HENRY CHARLES BEECHING.

_Going A Maying_

Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the G.o.d unshorn: See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet-slug-a-bed, and see The dew-bespangled herb and tree!

Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east, Above an hour since, yet you not drest, Nay, not so much as out of bed?

When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whenas a thousand virgins on this day, Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the Spring-time fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.

Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night.

And t.i.tan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green, and trimmed with trees! see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street, And open fields, and we not see't?

Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey The proclamation made for May.

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May.

A deal of youth, ere this is come Back and with white-thorn laden home.

Some have despatched their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given, Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time!

We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun.

And as a vapour, or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight, Lies drowned with us in endless night.

Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

ROBERT HERRICK.

_Jog On, Jog On_[12]

Jog on, jog on the foot path-way, And merrily hent the stile-a, Your merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.

Your paltry money-bags of gold-- What need have we to stare for, When little or nothing soon is told, And we have the less to care for.

Then cast away care, let sorrow cease, A fig for melancholy; Let's laugh and sing, or, if you please, We'll frolic with sweet Dolly.

_From The Winter's Tale._

[Footnote 12: _First stanza by William Shakespeare. Last two stanzas by unknown author in "Antidote Against Melancholy," 1661._]

_A Vagabond Song_

There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood-- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by.

And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gipsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

BLISS CARMAN.

_Swimming_

And mightier grew the joy to meet full-faced Each wave, and mount with upward plunge, and taste The rapture of its rolling strength, and cross Its flickering crown of snows that flash and toss Like plumes in battle's blithest charge, and thence To match the next with yet more strenuous sense; Till on his eyes the light beat hard and bade His face turn west and sh.o.r.eward through the glad Swift revel of the waters golden-clad, And back with light reluctant heart he bore Across the broad-backed rollers in to sh.o.r.e.

ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE.

_From "Tristram of Lyonesse."_

_Swimming_

How many a time have I Cloven, with arm still l.u.s.tier, breast more daring, The wave all roughened; with a swimmer's stroke Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair, And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'er The waves as they arose, and prouder still The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, In wantonness of spirit, plunging down Into their green and gla.s.sy gulfs, and making My way to sh.e.l.ls and seaweed, all unseen By those above, till they waxed fearful; then Returning with my grasp full of such tokens As showed that I had searched the deep; exulting, With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep The long suspended breath, again I spurned The foam which broke around me, and pursued My track like a sea-bird.--I was a boy then.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

_From "The Two Foscari."_

_The Angler's Reveille_[13]

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light; 'Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille.

This is the carol the Robin throws Over the edge of the valley; Listen how boldly it flows, Sally on sally:

Tirra-lirra, Down the river, Laughing water All a-quiver.

Day is near, Clear, clear.

Fish are breaking, Time for waking.

Tup, tup, tup!

Do you hear?

All clear-- Wake up!

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark, And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew, While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new.

This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, Unto his mate replying, Shaking the tune from his wings While he is flying:

Surely, surely, surely, Life is dear Even here.

Blue above, You to love, Purely, purely, purely.