SONG FROM JASON. I KNOW a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering. And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before. There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry. For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek. Yet tottering as I am and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place, To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MORRIS. OF A' THE AIRTS. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw There wild woods grow, and rivers row, Wi' mony a hill between; Baith day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers Sae lovely fresh and fair, I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi' music charm the air: DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It would not withered be; BEN JONSON. THE NIGHT PIECE: TO JULIA. HER eyes the glow-worme lend thee, And the elves also, Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wispe mislight thee, Let not the dark thee cumber, My soule I'll poure into thee. HERRICK. DISDAIN RETURNED. HE that loves a rosy cheek, But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts, with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. THOMAS CAREW. LOVE. LOVE is a sickness full of woes, A plant that most with cutting grows, Love is a torment of the mind, And Jove hath made it of a kind More we enjoy it, more it dies; Heigh-ho! Shall a woman's virtues move 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Who without them dare to woo; Great or good, or kind or fair, |